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[SheilaD67]

I own nothing save for Adela. Bioware has my eternal gratitude for creating this world and letting me play in their sandbox.

I’m still not going canon with the game or the books - just some twists to make things fit to my story. This chapter is decidedly darker than others I have written.

As always, thank you all for the reviews: mutive, Biff McLaughlin, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Windchime68, zevgirl, CCBug. And thanks to everyone who has been alerting and favoriting this as well. You have no idea how much this means! Reviews & even concrit *shudders* welcome (my feelings won’t be too awfully hurt).

DragonAge: Origins: The Halla Reborn
Chapter 20

She felt scared. Frightened.

Weak.

Impotent.

And these were feelings that Anora, Queen of Fereldan was not used to experiencing.

Mostly, she felt grief. She missed her husband, and still had not been able to properly grieve his death, even months later.

Worrying, too, was her father’s continued odd behavior. She flinched at that. Both she and Cailan had their suspicions and concerns. Although neither had been able to put their finger on what, exactly, was off with the Teyrn. Cailan had suggested that they ask Adela but when the queen had sent to the Alienage, she received a message that the young elf had been conscripted into the Grey Wardens. Anora turned her blue eyes to the open window, overlooking the gardens. Her blond head bowed; she had lost both husband and dearest friend at Ostagar. And she still had no true answers as to exactly what had happened there. Oh, certainly, both her father and Howe had given her fairly vague explanations of being overwhelmed by darkspawn and only managing to save the few forces they could - those forces being Loghain’s and Maric’s Shield. For some reason, Howe’s men never arrived at Ostagar.

She began to pace, trying to pull the pieces together. Arl Eamon’s troops never arrived either, and now there was no word of the wily old politician’s whereabouts, just rumors of an illness.

Rumors.

Her feet stopped, and she almost snarled out a curse. All she was getting these days were rumors. Nothing factual, nothing concrete that she could take as fact and work with. With rumors, all one could do was keep a weather eye out and wait.

And wait.

That seemed to be all she was doing.

She knew for fact that the Bannorn was getting restless and rebellious under Loghain’s iron fist.

She knew that Howe, who now somehow held the Arling of Denerim, had closed off the Alienage, and those few messages she and Cyrion had been able to pass along had been cut off.

Her eyes traveled up the wall to the ornate ceiling above, not seeing the gold gilding or elaborate chandelier. Pale lids closed over blue eyes. She sighed.

She knew she was afraid, and freely admitted it. At least, to herself.

Letting an exasperated sigh out, she turned and marched from her chambers, brushing past guards and stunned servants, seeking out her father. She wanted answers - not rumor, not innuendo. But true, hard facts. She needed to know what was going on. Regardless that Loghain was regent, she was still Queen. She was Cailan’s Queen, and he had been a good King. She paused, glancing about. She missed Marcela. The new maid Loghain had procured for her, this elf, Erlina, was not as personable as her former maid had been. Anora admitted she didn’t like the woman at all. Her frown deepened as she continued to the stairwell. And she was Orlesian, which made her appointment by Loghain that much stranger.

Another strange occurrence in a vast series of strange occurrences.

Her steps took her to the throne room, and she paused. The guards stationed at each end bowed respectfully to her, but she waved aside their offer to open the doors. Her thoughts were collected, as well as they could be in this situation, and she took a deep breath. With a nod, the guards opened the doors and the Queen stepped through.

Loghain sat upon the throne, a bored expression upon his hard face. Anora paused at that, noting that the expression was so foreign upon his features. Teyrn Howe stood before him, speaking. It sounded like reports of activity in the Bannorn. Straightening her shoulders, Anora marched forward, turning to look squarely at the man who was her father.

A slight smirk on his features, Howe turned and bowed gracefully to the queen. “Your Majesty,” his oily voice purred out, “as always an honor and pleasure to see you.” He rose, his dark eyes settling upon the queen’s lovely face. She did well to hide her discomfort under his scrutiny and turned back to Loghain.

“Father,” she began, keeping her voice steady. “What about the darkspawn?” She resisted the urge to pace. “Are they not our most pressing concern?”

Chilling blue eyes settled upon her face. “We need to get the nobles in line first, Anora,” his voice was heavier, more gravely then she recalled. “Once they are put back in their place, we can see to the darkspawn incursion.” Here he scoffed. “This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan’s vanity demanded it be so.” Never had she heard him speak of her husband with such disdain.

A firm rein on her temper, she stepped forward. “Did not Cailan contact the Orlesians?” she dared ask. “With their help…”

“No!” Loghain shouted, slamming a fist to the throne arm and rising forcefully to his feet. “We do not need their assistance for this! We Fereldans can handle this incursion. Have no fear.” He settled back onto the throne.

Her eyes narrowed. Taking a breath, she asked what she had been wanting to for months. “Did you kill Cailan?”

Her heart quickened, her breath was unsteady. Those icy blue orbs of her father’s, eyes that had often as a child caused her to stop whatever she was doing, obeying their intensity, were fully upon her. His voice quiet, he responded. “Cailan’s death was his own doing.”

She stumbled back, gasping slightly. Blinking, fighting back the tears that stung, she spun away and quickly left the room. Loghain’s eyes remained fixed to the spot she had been standing, but Howe’s followed her retreat, his smirking grin widening.

DA:O

Alistair’s amber eyes followed the young boy as the child paced about the room. Every now and again the lad would toss an insult toward the ex-templar, but the young man did not acknowledge the verbal assaults in any fashion. Other than to continue watching.

Outside the door, the Sten, Leliana and Morrigan stood, in case Alistair needed help in restraining Connor. Wynne, still exhausted from the battles, rested quietly in a room directly opposite the boy’s.

Alistair continued to watch, fighting down his concern for Adela. She and Roland were traveling light, which meant that they did not pack much for food and no camping supplies. Their plan being to run straight through the night to the Tower.

The young Warden was concerned about his being in charge. Adela had expressed complete confidence in him, but this was a life or death situation, and he found his old anxieties and fears creeping up on him.

Only once since the elf and knight left had the demon within Connor tried to assert itself forcefully, trying to animate nearby suits of armor. Alistair’s templar abilities to cleanse magic disrupted that attempt, a smite sending the creature in boy‘s guise reeling back. With a snarl, the demon retreated its power, but still maintained its hold on the boy.

Now and again Connor would emerge to ask for food or something to drink. Or, as he had until just moments ago, to play with some of his toys. It was while the boy was building a castle out of blocks that the demon returned, and since then paced the room.

He shifted his gaze briefly to the window, reminding himself that Roland was with her, as was her faithful hound. For now, his eyes turned back to the boy, who had stopped pacing and was playing with his blocks again, he had a more pressing concern.

DA:O

Upon leaving Redcliffe Village the trio - elf, man, dog - jogged along the highway, heading back to the Tower. Adela grumbled about how she had tried so hard to save time by hitting the tower first. Roland laughed, reminding her that, in a sense, they were saving time by having gone to the tower first. Remembering what they found therein on their first trip, she giggled her embarrassed reply.

Roland found the jog quite pleasant. His muscles had toughened with the daily walks and then sparring at the end of each day. Wearing his silverite splint mail during those walks helped to build back his strength and stamina as well. The much lighter leather armor he now wore seemed an almost joy to carry, but he felt very vulnerable without all the metal. Add to that the absence of his shield, and he felt very much exposed.

He glanced over at the elf, who did not seem to notice the exertion she was putting forth in jogging. Of course, elves were lighter, with smaller bone structures and musculature, making them far more suited to such activities as long distance running. And, the Dalish armor she wore…well, there wasn‘t as much leather to that as other leather armor. The knight found himself admiring her slender figure, the expanse of toned midriff and leg exposed by the scant armor. Adela glanced over at him, and, flushing a bit at being caught ogling her, he offered her a wide smile, letting her know that he was fine.

Of course Hafter absolutely loved the run. Prancing, jumping, hopping - the pooch was in his element, and would race far ahead, only to stop, turn and run back to the side of his beloved mistress. Adela would then reach over and scratch at an ear or pat him on the head and along his broad back before the dog would resume his antics.

And the knight was finding his time alone with the elf quite pleasant as well. Although they were far from taking a leisurely stroll, and could barely spare the breath to talk as they continued their pace, just being with her, without the others - Leliana’s girlish need for gossip; Morrigan trying to pull the elf into a debate over human and elven relations; Wynne’s constant mothering of the small, childlike elf; or Alistair’s near omnipresence - was a nice respite.

The day was cool, well suited for their increased pace. Roland noted that there were no bird songs. Although it was late autumn, in this part of Fereldan there were always birds, and so their absence seemed a bit strange. He could only assume that the unnatural occurrences at Redcliffe had affected the area, even as far away from the village as they were now.

DA:O

“You truly think you could stop me if I didn’t wish it?” Connor - no, the demon demanded as the boy perched himself upon the settee by the window, glaring over at the Warden.

Frowning, the young man continued his vigilance over the child, choosing not to acknowledge the demon, not to give it any ammunition to use against him. The boy chuckled, a strange, sultry sound coming from one so young. He turned to stare out the window, and then a scream - filled with anguish and terror - raced up the corridor outside the door. He heard the Sten curse in his native tongue, and heard footsteps race away from the door. Sounds of battle resumed in the hallway, and he could hear Morrigan’s voice chanting spells. Alistair stared at the door for a moment, and then turned back to the boy.

“Stop whatever you are doing!” he demanded, standing to tower over the small form of the child. A wicked smiled graced the boy’s cherubic features, malice glittering in those brown eyes.

“Make me,” came the childish reply.

Pulling all of his energy inward, the ex-templar shouted out, raising his arms as he cleansed the area of magic. Connor slumped forward, almost hitting the floor with his face, had Alistair not captured the lad in his arms. The sounds of battle outside of the door eased, and then ceased.

Holding the boy tensely, Alistair turned as the door to the chamber opened, revealing a disheveled Leliana. Her face was lined with concern.

“One of the suits of armor here…” she began, her usual cheerful tones gone, replaced with weariness. “It…killed one of the maids that was bringing us our dinner.” Her blue eyes focused on the boy still unconscious and in the Warden’s arms. As she left, she murmured, “I hope Adela returns soon with the mages.”

Bowing his head, Alistair slowly lifted the boy into his arms and settled him down on the bed.

He hoped so too.

DA:O

They had jogged for several hours and the sun was setting into the west. As dusk approached, Adela had suggested that they take a quick rest and eat something before continuing onward. Roland readily agreed, calling Hafter back to their sides.

They had packed their food light for two purposes: one was that they were traveling light; the other was that they could not travel quickly with overfull bellies. And so, they sat down, eating a cold supper of dried meat, fruit, and cheese, washing that most appetizing of meals down with cool water. Hafter actually turned his nose up at the rations (Adela broke into a twinkling peel of laughter at that), and went a-hunting instead.

Roland listened as the elf giggled at the scuffing and shuffling noises her hound made as he attempted to capture a hare that had bounded across his path. The knight found he enjoyed the sound immensely, and offered her a wide smile in compliment.

Both rose to their feet, hands to weapons, as a yelp erupted from the war hound, said yelp that immediately changed to a low growl. They turned toward the sounds, watching as the dog warily backed toward them, his haunches raised, teeth bared. An arrow whizzed by Adela’s head, and she ducked, spinning about to the direction she gathered the arrow flew from. A ring of humans and elves leaped from the surrounding shadows. One, an elven man with golden hair and a tanned complexion, called out for the Warden’s death.

Gritting her teeth, truly not liking the sound of that, Adela spun about, raising her daggers to skillfully turn aside the dagger that moved toward her face. She kicked out with one foot, connecting with a bent knee. The angle of the assassin’s knee allowed him to absorb much of the blow, but his concentration had been compromised, and Adela took advantage as she spun under his blades, bringing her back up against his chest, and then stepped solidly on one foot, grinding his toes under her heel, elbowing him in the gut. The assassin cursed in a language she did not understand, and tried to back away, to pull his blades back. The elf proved quicker, and tucked down again, driving both blades deeply into his chest. She yanked them free in a spray of blood.

The long sword cut forward, slicing slightly to the side, tearing a bit at the peasant dress the mage wore. Each hit, every distraction prevented her from calling forth power, and Roland took advantage of her disadvantage. She tried to cast a healing spell upon herself to heal a nasty cut the knight had delivered across her forearm, but his sword cut in again, this time slicing neatly into her side. Gasping, the mage stumbled back, unable to find the breath to call forth another spell. The sword descended, and she died.

Frowning, the knight turned to sweep aside an oncoming sword thrust, turning it neatly away. A leather gloved fist lashed out, slamming into the face of the human assassin. Blood dripped from a broken nose, and Roland, bereft of shield, stepped forward, slamming his fist again into the other man’s face, keeping him off balance. He then drove his sword deeply into the man’s chest, tearing through his heart, the point protruding out the back. With a grunt, the knight pulled his blade free.

Hafter leaped and growled, howled and tore at the elven man he faced. The elf could not get his daggers to bear against the moving mass of muscle that threatened him. The dog smelled fear radiate from this one, this one who would harm his mistress, his lady, his elf. His posture screamed it, and the dog lunged, deftly knocking the blades free of the elf’s hands, knocking the smaller being to the ground beneath his tremendous weight. With a growl, the beast’s head snapped forward, strong jaws closing around the elf’s slender neck. First he squeezed, and then snapped his jaws closed, breaking through skin and bones, tasting blood. Giving the elf a final shake, ensuring he was dead, the great war hound turned, seeking out new prey.

Her dagger snapped forward, and then the other followed closely behind. Thanking Leliana for her continued patience in training her with daggers, Adela flicked a blade, cutting through the light leather of the woman who she faced off against. The other dagger dug into the opening, driving deeply into the human’s shoulder. She twisted the blade as she pulled it free, the other dagger following, digging into her breast. The human jumped back, snarling in anger and pain, her own daggers jabbing forward, seeking to cut into the elf. Her face tight with concentration, Adela nimbly waltzed to the side, out of the other woman’s range. Ducking down, jabbing one blade low with the other high, she gave a satisfied nod as both blades entered into the human’s body, one through her side and into her chest, the other into her unprotected neck. Convulsing, the human slumped to the ground to bleed out.

Breathing hard, she turned, finding only one assassin survived. The elf who had ordered the others to attack and who had not engaged in the battle. Their eyes met, sapphire hard eyes to tiger eyes. The male elf offered a flamboyant bow to the woman, and then turned to dart away. With a whistle, Adela called her hound. Pointing at the fleeing elf, she ordered “Fetch!” and watched as Hafter ran the elf down, leaping onto his back, his jaws closing over the back of his neck as his great weight pinned him there.

With a look to each other to ensure the other was fine, the elf and knight walked over to the would-be assassin.

DA:O

The boy was sitting on his bed, unmoving, but smiling that damnable smile that told the ex-templar that it was not Connor who sat there, but the damned demon. He could feel the power building up and, again, sent forth his templar ability to cleanse the area of magic. The young man was tiring; the demon seemed to have tapped into Connor’s innate magical ability and, coupled with its own, could regenerate its mana quicker than Alistair could regain his strength. Yet again, the sounds of battle rang through the hallway beyond the boy’s bedroom door, and yet again, Alistair remained where he was, doing his best to tamp down the demon’s power. The Sten, Leliana, Teagan, Morrigan and Wynne battled against whatever frightful thing the demon managed to conjure, and still Alistair sat, watching, building his own reserves, ready to cast it again.

A terrifying scream, and the door burst open, admitting Isolde and Jowan. The Warden rose, seeking to forestall the Arlessa’s advance toward the boy. Connor, his eyes lit up with unnatural light, leaped from the bed, pulling his magical energy inward. A cry, a startled gasp, and Alistair turned, watching in horror as the boy’s form melted, bent, and reformed into that of an abomination, its twisted form a cruel mockery of the humanity of the boy.

Crying out, Isolde rushed to Connor’s side, sidestepping the startled Warden. With a snarl, the boy-turned-abomination struck out with one claw, catching the Arlessa across the face, tearing flesh from bone, piercing one eye, pulling it free. Horrified, Alistair pulled the screaming woman free of the demonic thing’s grasp, tossing her toward the blood mage. Jowan caught hold of her, turning as Wynne entered. Handing her off, Jowan turned again, pulling a dagger, as Alistair faced off against the abomination.

“Get her out of here!” Alistair shouted, parrying a swing of a powerful arm. Wynne and Leliana took the unconscious, bleeding form of the horrendously wounded woman from the room.

Jowan cut deeply into his palm, feeling the power granted him by the darker arts. He sent forth a burst of dark power, slamming the abomination in the chest. Alistair jabbed at the creature, seeking to tire it out. He felt the build up of magic from the abomination, and cast out with a cleansing field. Then, he cast out with a smite, sending the abomination and Jowan both to the floor.

Sobbing, praying, Alistair stood over the stunned figure that had once been the Arl’s little boy. The creature looked up with dazed eyes - Connor’s eyes - and, using Connor’s boyish voice, asked for help, pleaded for mercy. His lips trembling, nausea rising in his throat, the ex-Templar gripped his sword in both hands, and plunged it down into the thing’s chest.

The massive shape shuddered once, and then stilled. A few moments passed, and the form of Connor reshaped from the molted mess of the abomination.

Slumping down beside the form, Alistair’s large frame shook as he sobbed beside the boy‘s still and bloody form. Jowan stood, staring down at the body, blood dripping from the self inflicted wound.

Beyond the room, further down the hall, the Arlessa’s screams of agony could be felt as well as heard.

DA:O

They stood over the prone form of the elf. Adela clucked her tongue at her dog, and he immediately obeyed, taking a stance by her side, guarding, ready to strike back at this other elf. The elven man flipped over, pushing himself up into a seated position, his tawny eyes taking in the forms of the small elven woman, huge war dog, and extremely angry human man. A slight smirk crossed the elf’s handsome features as he turned his attention fully upon the lovely elven woman, allowing his eyes to roam over her form.

A blond brow rose, her eyes hard, the elf returned the other elf’s appraisal, although with far less lascivious nature.

“Ah, so, this is one of the fabled Grey Wardens?” the elf spoke in a heavy accent. “I see that reputations are not exaggerated.” He lifted his eyes from where they were roaming to settle upon Adela’s very blue eyes. “And, since you have decided not to kill me, I suspect that you wish to interrogate the prisoner, correct?”

The elf nodded, Roland remaining at her side looking threatening. The assassin chortled, saying, “Then, let me save you some time, yes?” He glanced warily at the war hound as he brought a hand to his chest. “My name is Zevran…ah, Zev to my friends.” he waved a hand to the woman. “A member of the Antivan Crows. We were hired to assassinate any surviving Wardens, which I have failed at, as you can no doubt see.”

A brow quirked. “I’m rather pleased you failed,” said Warden responded, ignoring the elf’s invitation to introduce herself.

“As would I, in your shoes of course,” the assassin purred.

“Who hired you?”

“Ah, yes,” he purred, smiling. “That would be one Teyrn Howe, I do believe.”

Roland’s face darkened at the mention of the traitorous nobleman. Adela placed a calming hand on his arm. “And now that you failed at your assignment?”

"Well, that is between Teyrn Howe and the Crows, and the Crows and myself, unfortunately."

“And you and I,” Adela reminded him.

Chuckling, the elf replied. “Is that not what we are establishing now, yes?”

Roland scowled and demanded, "Why are you telling us all this?"

The elven male laughed. "Why not? I wasn't paid for silence," he replied smoothly.

Adela frowned at this. "Do you hold no loyalty for your employer?"

“Loyalty is an interesting concept,” he waved aside the notion. “If you wish, and you are done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."

Chewing her lower lip, she waved for him to continue.

"Well, you see," the assassin quipped, "The Crows do not reward failure,” he sighed dramatically. “I have failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit,” a shrug of graceful shoulders. “The thing is, I like living; quite a lot, actually. And you, obviously, are the sort to give the Crows pause. So…" he paused and went on, "let me serve you instead."

Astounded by the other elf‘s audacity, Adela stood staring at him in silence for many moments. "You must think I'm royally stupid."

Zevran was not deterred, but immediately said, "I think you're royally hard to kill, and utterly gorgeous." Seeing her raised brows, he hurried on suavely, "Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery, of course. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

Roland took a threatening step forward, his sword gripped tightly in his hand at that remark. Zevran merely cast a lazy gaze toward the knight, seemingly unconcerned by the man‘s threatening stance.

A hand on his arm stilled the knight. "And what's to stop you from trying to finish the job if I let you live?"

Ah ha. "To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice about joining the Crows. I was bought on the slave market at a young age,” he hung his head here, trying to elicit sympathy from the other elf. “Even if I were to kill you now, they might just kill me on principle. I'd rather take my chances with you."

“What do you think you have to offer?”

He grinned. “I could open pesky locks, give you warning should the Crows attempt more…sophisticated means of disposing of you.” His eyes traveled along her form again. “"I could also stand and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?"

“No.”

“No? Such a shame.”

"And what would you want in return?"

His reply was instant. "Being allowed to live would be nice, and make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the road, if you should decide you no longer need me, well then, I shall go my way. Until then, I am yours to command. Is that not fair?"

Those blue eyes continued to scrutinize the male elf, watching his facial expressions and body language. While she believed his story and his offer to join them, she did not trust him. Not at all. To do so would be suicidal, and one thing Adela was not, it was suicidal. A glance to Roland told her that the human had similar thoughts.

“No,” she stated flatly, watching as the other elf’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“I…I beg your pardon?” That did surprise him.

“No,” she repeated. “I’ll not kill you, Zevran; however I have no intention of allowing you to join us.”

“Adela…” Roland started, but she shook her head.

“Roland, if you want to kill him, go ahead. I’ll not think any less of you,” she turned her eyes back to the elven man still sitting on the ground. “I will not do so.” Her eyes narrowed. “I warn you, Zevran of the Antivan Crows,” her voice was hard, a tone Roland had never heard before coming from her. “If you attempt to ambush or kill any of us again, I will not be so merciful.”

Zevran watched the young woman, confused but at least alive. He pushed himself to his feet, and brushed himself off. Once that was completed, he offered the elven woman a deep, respectful bow, and then turned and melted into the shadows.

DA:O

He had been certain letting the assassin go had probably been one of the biggest and worst mistakes he had ever witnessed Adela make. He had tried to speak with the elven woman about it, but she clearly did not wish to discuss it, saying only that the decision had been made, and to let it go. Let. It. Go. Roland was having a hard time with that and so had kept a very careful eye on the surrounding darkness about them as they resumed their jog to the Tower.

And, despite the fact that they had arrived at the Tower without further delay or hindrance, he still felt it had been a monumental mistake that would later on come back to haunt them. He looked over at Adela as they awaited the ferryman to make his boat ready for the trip to the Tower. He just hoped he would be around to protect her when the Antivan Crows came back.

Adela was tired. That much was obvious. As soon as the ferryman, Kester, had the boat ready, she climbed in and slumped onto the seat, leaning against the side. Hafter bounded over to her, rocking the boat, to lay down at her feet. Roland sat beside her, glancing down at her weary features. Deciding to take the risk, the young knight reached over, put his arm across the elf’s shoulders and pulled her against him. He felt her stiffen at the contact, and her eyes moved up to his face. His green eyes met hers and he offered a slight smile. “You look tired,” he quietly said, hoping she would relax, praying he was not being too forward. With a sigh, the elf did relax, nestling under his arm, her eyes closed as she took a few moments to rest.

The water gently lapped against the sides of the boat in an almost hypnotic rhythm as the ferryman guided the craft across the waters and toward the Tower. Roland almost believed that Adela had fallen asleep as relaxed as she was. He was amazed at just how small she felt with his arm around her. Although there was no mistaking just how small the woman was when standing next to her, she always seemed larger when speaking with people, calming them, or giving orders. And when she stood in battle, her bow sure in her hands, she seemed almost titanic. But here, resting, worn, and worried about their friends and the Arl and his family, she seemed as tiny as a child. And as delicate. He picked up one tiny hand, noticing the beginnings of calluses developing on her otherwise soft hands. He frowned, recalling that this woman was an artisan, one condemned to a life as a warrior. Although he wished nothing more than to serve as a Grey Warden, even one who so idolized the order could see when someone was far more suited for something else. And, although she was brave and a natural leader, a life spent fighting did not seem quite suited to this young woman.

Brilliant blue eyes opened as they neared the Tower dock. As Kester tied the boat off, the elf leaped lightly from the small craft. Asking the ferryman to remain, Adela led Roland back into the tower.

The doors were guarded by two Templars - one the ridiculous Carroll who had guarded the docks during their first visit and another they did not recognize. Carroll indicated that the First Enchanter could be found in his offices upstairs, and called over a third templar to show them the way. They found both the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander standing in Irving’s office, obviously discussing the rebuilding of the Tower. Both men seemed pleased to see Adela. The elf greeted the mage warmly, but her salutation to the templar was still a bit cool.

After Adela explained what was happening at Redcliffe, Irving all but jumped at the chance to give the plan a try. Muttering something about gathering lyrium and mages, the old man walked off. Gregoir turned to the elf and knight and offered them a room in which they could rest while Irving gathered all he would need. Tired and weary, Adela graciously accepted the Templar’s offer.

The room the Knight-Commander offered up was small but contained two small beds. Sighing in relief, Adela removed her gloves and boots, leaving her armor on (she had no other clothing to change into) and lay down on the comfortable bed. She was asleep before Roland even removed his boots.

DA:O

Wynne’s hands pressed down on the wailing woman’s face. Morrigan, her face cast in a look of utter concentration, sent her spell flowing into Isolde’s flailing body. Soon, the woman stilled as the witch’s sleep spell took hold.

The elder mage ran her hands over the Arlessa’s ruined face, clucking in sympathy, sending out tendrils of healing power through the wounds. Morrigan remained unusually silent as she turned back to her mortar and pestle, grinding herbs into a poultice.

Outside, Leliana stood, leaning against the door frame, ready to rush any errand the mages needed as they tended to the wounded noblewoman. Teagan had locked himself in a study, while Alistair had not come out of the boy’s room. The Sten had removed the body and was having it prepared for a pyre.

DA:O

The mages were ready within two hours of Adela and Roland’s arrival. Irving planned to accompany them back to the castle, and had enlisted Niall (who gave the elven woman a warm hug when he spotted her) and an elven male, Artemis Surana, to accompany them back to Redcliffe. Artemis nodded politely to Adela, his large hazel eyes settling appreciatively upon Roland’s muscled form. The knight blanched under the scrutiny, placing a hand on Adela’s shoulder. The elven mage merely shrugged, pouting his lips as he turned back to the First Enchanter.

“We’ll need to move as quickly as we can,” Adela was explaining to the mages. “I have no idea how long it will be before the demon reasserts itself.” If it hasn’t already done so, she amended silently.

Irving nodded to a nearby Templar, who stepped forward, carrying a large iron box etched with runes. This Templar, again one the elf did not recognize, would be accompanying them back to the Castle as well.

With a farewell to Gregoir, Irving led the group out of the tower, and to where Kester and the boat awaited.

DA:O

The light danced along the prism surface of the glass, casting tiny rainbows along the hand that held it. The glass tilted, and the thick, golden liquid contained therein coated the surface nicely, causing tiny golden sparkles to dance along the hand. The glass raised to dry lips, and the liquid was gulped down in one easy swallow. The hand holding the glass twisted it about, staring at it with coppery brown eyes that were heavy with sorrow and pain. With a profound sigh, Teagan set the glass carefully upon the side table, closing his eyes, and bowing his head.

How would he tell Eamon that not only was his son dead, but his wife horribly disfigured? The despair assaulted the Bann, causing a clear pain to rise in his chest. He was to have protected his brother’s family; but instead, he had failed in a most solid manner. He brushed aside a tear that fell from his eye.

He had failed his family.

DA:O

Horses. That was what they needed. Horses. Adela thought it before, she thought it now. What was Fereldan’s apprehension regarding horses? Oxen, oh sure those could be found anywhere. Ever try riding one? She shook her head, recalling her mother telling her stories of riding the majestic Halla in her childhood. There…that was what they needed. A whole herd of Halla.

It was a good thing she and Roland had made such excellent time in getting to the tower, assassin ambush aside. But, she could not blame the mages. Irving was, well, old. And had not Wynne’s experience beyond the Tower nor her sprightliness. And as much as she liked her friend Niall, he really was not the most in shape person she had ever met. And Artemis? The elf was sprightly and flighty; too busy flirting with Roland or noticing every single plant, bird, bug or rock they passed by to make any real progress forward. The Templar was the only member from the Tower that could move in a good forward motion, nothing delaying or distracting him whatsoever. He was also the most unresponsive companion anyone had ever had the pleasure of walking with. She snorted. He made the Sten seem almost personable.

The elven mage was, yet again, flirting outrageously with the ginger haired knight. Adela bit down a grin, her eyes shining with amusement as she watched Roland trying desperately to just ignore the elf. She saw his green eyes turn to her, pleading with her to rescue him and all she did was offer him a sympathetic shrug of her lithe shoulders, and turn back to Irving.

Apparently, Irving and Niall had an interesting theory with regards to the Fade and a non-mage’s ability to traverse it. Since Adela had been aware during her time in the Fade, and had also learned how to shape shift and otherwise control her environment within that environment, both mages had concluded that she - or someone with equal contact within the Fade - could be sent there by mages, in a similar fashion as what they were proposing to do in Connor’s case. Adela seemed skeptical, but Niall especially was adamant that they should try it at some point, practically begging the young elf to volunteer. Adela rolled her eyes at the mage, who looked at her with a puppy dog expression in his brown eyes. Without promising a thing, the young Warden said she would think about it, but told both mages that she had not enjoyed her time in the Fade in such a manner and was really in no hurry to repeat the experience. Taking her decision at face value, both mages continued their discussion.

She turned at the sound of Roland sputtering a harsh “No!” at the elven mage and watched as he all but stomped over to her side. Biting her lip, she found it very humorous that the knight, who had already told her of his opinion of such same gender relations, was being so relentlessly pursued by the handsome elven mage. The knight did not find it as humorous and merely offered her a glare, which crumbled in the face of the sweet smile she turned on him.

DA:O

He sat, near where Connor had fallen, the blood stain having penetrated the wood of the floor, steeping in and staining it, always the reminder of what had happened herein.

Alistair turned his head, feeling shame at having cut down the child. He could not think that the child had been turned into an abomination, all semblances of humanity having been stripped from him by the demon he had bargained with. It had still been a child, one who did not understand the dangers of magic. One who now would never understand.

He knew that Jowan had been present, and that Teagan had ordered the blood mage returned to the dungeons. The mage had returned without a sound of protestation.

Adela had left him in charge. She had said she was confident he would make the right decision. He rose, his sword hanging loosely in his hand. He could not shake the feeling that he had failed her.

DA:O

It was late the following day when the castle came into view and nearly dusk when they arrived at the castle. Adela made a mental note that there were no new corpses lying about, and that the villagers seemed to be putting their lives back in order. It was a morbid thought, but one the elf found necessary to assure herself that all was as it should be.

It was a somber Ser Perth that greeted Adela and her group at the front steps of the castle. After quickly explaining what had happened, the elf gave out a cry, and then ran away from the group, into the castle, in search of Alistair.

DA:O

Leliana caught up to Adela first as she sped to Connor’s room. Grasping the elf’s arm, she gave a more thorough detail of events since her departure. She also explained that Alistair had not left Connor’s room since he had to…stop the abomination, and that no one had been able to get through to the young man. The elf nodded, wiping away a tear as the Orlesian finished. Thanking Leliana, asking her to go and make sure that the mages were making Isolde as comfortable as possible, she turned to the door behind which sat her fellow Warden.

The door was unlocked; she was momentarily surprised by that. Turning the knob, she slipped into the darkened room. She could clearly see the outline of Alistair, kneeling upon the floor. Quietly, she closed the door and stepped beside the young man. Dropping to her knees, she embraced her friend, pulling him to her. With an anguished cry, Alistair dropped his sword, wrapping his strong arms around the slender elf, releasing the sorrow he had been trying to contain.

He kept apologizing, saying he had failed her, failed the Wardens, failed the Arl. Adela shushed him, wiping the tears from his face with a small hand. The young Warden tried to keep from weeping, tried to push his sorrow back. The elf could feel the effort he was putting into it. Pushing him back, she looked into his red eyes.

“Is there somewhere you wish to go, so that we can talk alone?” she asked quietly, recalling that this was his childhood home. He paused, then nodded his head. “The stables,” he whispered, a sob clenching in his throat. Nodding, she stood, pulling him up as well. Opening the door, she led the man out of the castle, and then followed him to the stables.

Once upon a time, the stables had housed horses. However, the recent events had decimated the stables. Alistair led her to a stall in the furthest back. Then, pulling down a ladder, he led her up to the loft.

Strangely, the loft held a cot and open crate, in which lay old bedding and clothing. A knot formed in her stomach as she recalled Alistair telling her that the Arl had housed the then boy Alistair in the stables, at the insistence of his new Arlessa.

She turned, finding Alistair sitting on the cot that had once been his bed. He looked so despondent, so broken, her heart cried out for him. She helped him remove his splint mail, making him more comfortable in the cotton breeches and tunic he wore beneath. She then climbed onto the cot, and leaned her back against the wall. Reaching over, she pulled Alistair to her, tucking his head under her chin. He then cried out his sorrow, telling her everything that had happened, taking the blame for so much. She was glad Leliana had told her what had happened; this way she could dispute Alistair’s self-condemnation with fact. How long he cried and talked, she had no idea. Not that it mattered. His words died out long before his tears. The elf twisted, pulled his head down, resting it lightly on her lap, his face turned toward her knees, her fingers brushing through his hair, along his cheeks, and over his ear as the tears still fell. Eventually, his eyes closed and the human was lulled into a fitful sleep. Closing her eyes, her fingers still stroking his hair and face, Adela relaxed against the wood, allowing her tense body to ease and doze.

DA:O

A few hours later, just past midnight, and Alistair found himself awake, his head resting comfortably in a soft lap, small hands resting lightly upon his forehead and neck. He shifted, looking up into Adela’s restful face. Smiling, he gently pulled himself into a seated position, placing a hand on one slender shoulder. He barely applied any pressure but the elf’s blue eyes opened, focusing upon his face. Smiling, she blinked a few times.

“How do you feel?” she asked as she bent forward slightly and stretched her arms out, rolling her shoulders, her eyes remaining on his face.

She noticed his eyes drooped somewhat, and an almost perpetual sadness etched his features. She reached over and placed a cool hand on his cheek. “I will be fine, eventually,” he admitted softly, his voice harsh, ducking his head to press into her hand. “I just cannot shake the feeling that I’ve let everyone down.”

The cot creaked loudly as she moved to sit directly in front of the human man. “Alistair,” she moved her hand from his cheek to under his chin, raising his head slightly. “Do you know why I left you in charge?”

He snorted. “Because I’m your second.”

She smiled at him. “True. But, mostly because if I had left anyone else - be it Sten or Morrigan, Leliana or Wynne - I knew that not every avenue would have been explored should a situation arise while I was gone.”

“Roland would have made the right decision,” the young man retorted glumly.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, tilting her head slightly to him. “But he did not have all of the skills necessary for what needed to be done.”

Her blue eyes turned piercing, and the young man found he could not look away from their intensity. “You, on the other hand, were able to counter most of the demon’s magical attacks with your templar abilities; that bought us time and is not something any of the rest of us can do.”

She began to tick off on her fingers.

“Your first reaction would not have been to simply kill the child, as would have been Sten’s or Morrigan’s.” Her head tipped. “You would also be sympathetic to Isolde and Teagan. Again, something neither Sten or Morrigan are even remotely capable of doing. However,” her eyes narrowed. “You also could have made the tough decision when and if necessary, and I doubt seriously either Leliana or Wynne would have been capable of that. And so more people would have died.”

She began stroking his face gently, watching as his face relaxed. “You made the difficult decision, Alistair, because it was the only decision left to make.”

A heavy sigh escaped from Alistair’s lips and he raised his eyes once again to the elf’s face. “It’s not easy leading, is it?”

A bark of laughter and the elf replied, with a shake of her head, “No, no it’s not. But,” she smiled, placing her hands on both of his broad shoulders. “I will always have faith that you will make the right decision.” Her mind wandered to the note Duncan left her. “Duncan had faith in you as well, if you recall.”

“He always did,” the young Warden admitted, remembering his talks with his mentor. “He used to tell me that I lacked confidence, but that he had faith that someday I would understand and accept the burdens of leadership.” He frowned, looking at the elf. “I used to think he meant my being Maric’s son, but, now…” he shrugged. “I’m thinking it just had more to do with me and not any plans anyone else may have had for me.”

Her eyes traveled around the loft area of the stables, frowning at the hay and the cot and everything else that reminded her that Alistair had been relegated to the stables as a child because of an adult woman’s jealousy and insecurities. Her frown deepened as she thought that same woman had inadvertently caused so many deaths, her own son included.

It was still quite dark outside and the elf found she was exhausted.

“Come here,” she motioned to the man, opening her arms. Alistair settled against her, pulling her closer so that her head rested against his shoulder. “We need to get more rest.”

She felt him nod in agreement. “I’d rather not go back to the castle just yet,” he admitted, his voice soft and a bit quivery. She could understand.

“Okay, we’ve spent most of the night here anyway,” she motioned to the cot. “go lay down. I’ll make a nest here.”

Glancing over at the cot and then down at the floor, Alistair shook his head. “There’s room for two on the cot,” he suggested quietly. Adela felt her cheeks flush warmly.

Her blue eyes shifted over to the cot. With a sigh, she motioned for him to get settled first, and then she slid next to him, fitting her small shape against his. With a contented sigh, Alistair draped an arm around her, pulling her against him slightly. He could feel her tense body relax against him, and then the gentle breathing as she fell asleep.

Smiling softly, nuzzling his face into her hair, the young man quickly followed her into the Fade.

　

[SheilaD67]

I own nothing save for Adela. Bioware has my eternal gratitude for creating this world and letting me play in their sandbox.

I’m still not going canon with the game or the books - just some twists to make things fit to my story.

As always, thank you all for the reviews: mutive, Biff McLaughlin, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Windchime68, zevgirl, mutive, celtic-twinkie. And thanks to everyone who has been alerting and favoriting this as well. You have no idea how much this means! Reviews & even concrit are welcome (well, kinda. Okay, okay…marginally welcome).

DragonAge: Origins: The Halla Reborn
Chapter 21

　
The next few days passed without incidence. Wynne and Morrigan continued to tend to Lady Isolde, whose wounds were healing. Although nothing could be done about the missing eye, Wynne was able to smooth out many of the scars the abomination had scored across her smooth flesh. Because of the extent of the damage, however, Morrigan had been keeping the Arlessa in a relative stupor, allowing her to emerge just long enough to get sustenance into her and see to her other anatomical needs, but never fully aware so that she was not conscious of the extent of damage done to her fine face.

The rest of the party assisted in clearing the castle of bodies, removing any signs of the corruption, as well as help with the village. The work was tedious, time consuming and exhausting…something they all welcomed with fervor.

Bann Teagan had tried several times, unsuccessfully, to take Alistair aside and discuss the events at the castle with him. For his part, the young Warden had made a studious effort to avoid speaking with the Bann, concerned that he had disappointed his adoptive uncle greatly. Teagan, although trying to maintain an air of patience, was quickly running out of his immense supply. Finding Adela speaking with the mayor, the Bann pulled her aside.

“Alistair seems to be making a point of avoiding me,” the Bann said as soon as the pair was relatively alone.

Brushing a stray lock from her eyes, the elf nodded, turning her eyes to search out the other Warden’s muscular form. He was by the water, assisting Dwyn in rebuilding the docks that led directly to the lakefront. Teagan’s eyes followed, a frown deepening upon his face. With a heavy sigh, she turned back to the human.

“He feels responsible for what happened with both Connor and Isolde,” the elven Warden explained, crossing her arms across her chest. “I think he’s avoiding speaking with you for fear of what you may say.”

His eyes widened with concern and surprise. “Why ever would he fear that?” He shook his head, his eyes going back to the young man. “I know what he did to try and prevent any more deaths. By the Maker!” he threw his hands into the air, releasing some of his own frustration and feelings of inadequacy with the gesture. “I was there!”

She nodded, placing a small hand on an arm, lowering it to his side. “I know that; you know as does everyone else within the castle. Alistair, however,” she gestured toward her friend. “feels that he let everyone down, and that the Arl will never forgive him for what happened to his son and wife.”

“But, what befell the castle had nothing to do with Alistair!”

Again she nodded. “But it was his sword that cut down Connor,” she said quietly, her eyes turned back to the Bann. “He had been left in charge, and it had been his decision.” She frowned. “In time, he will see what we all see. That the decision he made was the one that had to be made. For now…” she left it hanging.

“For now we just give him time,” Teagan completed for her, his eyes once again upon the young man.

They both watched as Alistair’s eyes settled upon them. Adela smiled when the young man offered them a nod and then turned back to his work.

She made to turn away, but then reached over and took hold of one of Teagan’s hands, giving it a squeeze. “And you, my friend, need to release your own guilt as well.” She smiled at him and then turned to walk away, seeking out the old blacksmith. Teagan could only watch her leave, surprise and gratitude upon his face.

DA:O

Work. That was what he needed to do. Hard labor, exhausting himself to the point where he could not think. And so, Alistair drove himself hard, helping in every heavy, menial task that the village and castle had to offer. Whether it was carrying the dead to the pyres, loading lumber onto carts, or rebuilding the docks, Alistair was the first to volunteer.

And every night he had been able to fall into an exhausted sleep, untarnished even by the nightmares that all Grey Wardens suffered during Blights.

He stopped to wipe his brow, turning his head to catch the breeze that came across the water. He spied Adela and Teagan talking, and watched as both sets of eyes turned his way. He offered a slight nod, and then turned back to Dwyn and the dock.

DA:O

Walking the line of sparring men and women, the knight frowned, shaking his head. It was too bad that so many of the castle’s guards had been killed. Now, they needed to rebuild the sentry for the castle as well as maintain a trained militia. Given how many that had died during the demon’s attacks, Roland was unconvinced that both were possible.

Still, Ser Perth had requested the Highever knight’s assistance. Since both men had endured and lived through both of their castles falling to unaccountable evil, they were doubly concerned and hyper aware of the possibility of it happening again.

He looked over to where the Orlesian woman was training archers. He admired her skill and patience; Leliana was a natural instructor, always able to put the men and women at ease with a tiny smile here, a kind word there. He shook his head, again wondering what the lovely Orlesian could possibly have in common with the equally beautiful, but highly taciturn Witch she so actively pursued. To each his - or her - own, he thought, grinning, as he turned back to the sparring pairs.

A small figure entered the courtyard and Roland looked up, smiling at the approach of Adela. The young elf looked tired, but resolute. He knew that she had spent many nights with Alistair, helping to ease the young man’s heart with regards to the boy who had turned into an abomination. The knight fought down a pang of jealousy, and paused. Since when had he even the right to such feelings? He watched as Adela passed by, smiling broadly at him, her eyes twinkling. His heart felt lighter. Okay, so, perhaps his feelings for her went beyond mere friendship. But, when did they go beyond that? Beyond the simple flirtation he had indulged in (although the elf herself had never actively participated in)? He watched her mount the steps, pausing to give Ser Perth a word, watching as the older knight offered her a smile and slight bow. She glanced back, her eyes settling upon Roland, her smile for him alone.

Perhaps the elf did not realize the knight’s feelings for her. She always seemed oblivious of the attraction he felt for her. She even seemed oblivious to the almost fawning affections of her fellow Warden.

Roland decided that soon he would have to make his feelings, his intentions, known to her.

For now, however, he had troops to train, and guardsmen to assign.

DA:O

Later that day Adela walked through the cool corridors of the castle, stopping before the Arlessa’s door. Wynne had explained that she had done all she could with the healing. Apparently, the Arlessa would still retain some scars as the claw that had disfigured her had been poisoned, and were difficult for the skilled healer to counter. That she lived at all was a miracle, or so Wynne had said. Adela, who had a great deal more experience among nobles, wasn’t so certain Lady Isolde would feel the same way. Adela had been surprised - pleasantly so - that Morrigan had gone along with trying to heal the Arlessa. Compared to other wounds received by many who defended the village and castle, Isolde’s were minor. However, both mages had taken time from when they should have been resting to continue to pour healing magics into her body, trying to repair the damage done to her face.

Bowing her head, giving a sigh, she turned the knob and entered the noblewoman’s room.

Lady Isolde lay upon her bed, quilts tucked under her arms, an array of downy pillows framing her form. She stood, evaluating the damage to the woman’s features. Her left eye socket was puckered and sunken in, giving her an aged look. Wynne’s healing magic had lessened the three deep scars that scored her left cheek, but they still showed white and vivid. Her magic had also managed to plump the flesh beneath the scars. A surge of pity welled in the elf. However much she may not like the woman, Adela could not find it in her heart to feel anything but pity for her. She took a step closer to stand next to her bedside.

The Arlessa appeared to be sleeping. The elf pulled a chair closer and settled down, carefully taking one of the human woman’s cold hands and holding it gently. Adela wasn’t certain if the woman would appreciate her company, but at the moment Wynne and the others were taking a much needed break. The elf had volunteered to sit vigil over the woman until someone else could do so.

Whispering, “I am very sorry, Lady Isolde,” to the sleeping woman, Adela rubbed the soft flesh along the back of her hand, listening to the steady breathing of the sleeping woman.

DA:O

That night found all of the companions seated around the dining table, eating their fill. Bann Teagan sat at the head, but Lady Isolde was absent. They all knew that the woman continued to rest upstairs in a magic induced slumber as both mages continued to send magics into her body in an attempt to speed up the healing process.

As was everyone, the Bann was exhausted from his efforts in stabilizing the village and castle before winter’s first snows. But his worry for his brother grew, and so he decided to breach the subject of the Urn with the Wardens and their companions.

Frowning over her fork, Adela asked, “Isn’t the Urn just a legend?” Assenting mumbles sounded down the table.

Teagan replied, “True. However, we have a reliable scholar, one Brother Genetivi, who is quite successful in ferreting out legends. Word had reached Isolde that he had actually found where the resting place may well be.” He shrugged his shoulders, resting his fork back to his plate. “My suggestion would be to seek clues at his home in Denerim. I believe his assistant may still be found there.”

Chewing thoughtfully, the elf swallowed. “So, I gather you want us to seek out the Urn, then?” She turned her blue eyes upon the Bann, watching as he nervously pushed his plate forward and then folded his hands before him.

“I truly believe that if anyone can find the Urn, or Brother Genetivi, it would be you and your friends, my dear lady.”

“You do realize that we’ve a Blight we’re trying to defeat?” She raised a brow, watching him closely. The others at the table had ceased eating and were now watching the two. “And, going to Denerim may not be the wisest destination for us at the moment.” That last was a statement, thinking of the ambush she and Roland had defeated just days before.

“I do realize this, Adela,” Teagan’s voice was tired, filled with resignation. “However, you will need Eamon’s help against Loghain and his sycophants once you have gathered all of your allies. To win over the nobles and get them to oust Loghain, you will need him.”

Letting out a sigh, the elf’s eyes wandered down the length of the table, resting briefly upon each of her companions. She did not like delaying collecting on the treaties any longer than necessary. But, Teagan was correct: they could gather all of the allies they wanted; without help from the Throne itself, defeating the Blight would be an ongoing uphill battle, wherein they would not only be fighting against darkspawn, but the troops of the realm itself. Troops that would be better used in battling the Blight.

Well I did tell Alistair leading was never easy, she thought with grim amusement. With a nod, she scooped up food onto her fork, then replied, “Very well, Teagan. We will go to Denerim and then search out this Brother Genetivi.” She frowned, bringing the food to her mouth. “We’ll rest up for two more days and then leave.” With that, she resumed eating her meal, staring at her plate.

Nodding, Teagan resumed his own meal, as did the others at the table.

DA:O

They were told by Teagan and Ser Perth that, because they were leaving soon to begin the quest for the Urn, they would all need to rest and not assist any further in the rebuilding of the village or castle.

Sounded good. Just two days of relaxing, restocking, eating, sleeping…right?

Not really.

Adela found herself bored.

The Sten found solace in attacking the combat dummy or mediating on the Qun. He seemed quite content for the moment, although the elf knew that the giant warrior would not allow for too much down time when there were darkspawn to slaughter.

Morrigan spent her time locked in her room, pouring over the tome Adela had found during their excursion through the Tower of Magi. The witch had excitedly told the elf that this had been a tome of her mother‘s, one that had been missing for many years, and the one time her secrets had been allowed to get away from her. After thanking Adela profusely (which, surprisingly, included a small, quick hug), Morrigan had locked herself away to study its secrets.

Wynne rested and read, and Leliana found several books with old Orlesian and Fereldan poetry.

Roland spent his time going over his armor and weapons, as did Alistair.

But for Adela, there really wasn’t much for her to do. She spent time with Irving and Niall, and watched as Artemis, again, tried to coerce Roland into trying something ‘different‘. That the human knight was more than unresponsive did not deter the small mage whatsoever.

She also met with Teagan, asking him for an accounting of when he had last seen Loghain. The picture the man painted had not been pleasant, one wherein the Teyrn had threatened, taunted and trampled on the rights of the sovereign lords. He had also told her of the pale, withdrawn woman who had once been the vibrant Anora standing behind the man, allowing him to speak for the realm in her stead. Feeling an ache in her heart, questioning the Bann and listening to his patient answers, Adela could only find that she needed to resign herself to the fact that Loghain had not been the person she, Cailan and Anora had believed him to be. Or rather, that he had changed immeasurably.

And that it was very possible that he, in whatever insanity had its grip upon him, had left his king, the Wardens and countless soldiers to perish on the field at Ostagar.

She thanked Teagan, pressing her hand to his arm, fighting against the tears that she was determined not to shed until she was alone, she turned abruptly and sought out her solace.

Later, her eyes stinging and red, her face feeling as though it burned, she inventoried the entire group’s supplies and sent out orders to the blacksmith and grocer. That took the rest of the first day.

That evening, she found herself dwelling back on questions she had about the Grey Wardens, questions that still had not been answered. And so, she decided to search out her favorite - albeit completely incomplete - source of all things Grey Warden.

She located Alistair polishing his armor in his rooms and took a seat next to the young man on his bed.

The young man looked up from his work, an easy grin on his face. He recognized that look on her face. It was one he had learned meant ‘I need answers, and guess who‘s going to give them to me?’ He dreaded that look. “What is it, Adela?” he asked, maintaining his grin and setting his armor aside.

She looked up at Alistair, returning his grin. “I have a few questions about being a Grey Warden.” Her head tilted to the side. “I know that it’s impossible for you to remember everything, so if you could just try and clear up some questions as they spring to my little mind, that would be fine.”

Alistair nodded, indicating for her to continue.

“First, what is the Calling?”

An open hand slapped his forehead. “I forgot to mention that, didn’t I?” Adela nodded. “The Calling is what occurs at the end of a Warden’s thirty years. The nightmares return, apparently worse than they were in the beginning of a Warden‘s career, and the Warden knows it’s his time, that the end is near. Usually, the Warden will go to the deep roads in Orzammar and kill as many darkspawn until killed.”

“Why Orzammar?”

Alistair shrugged. “There are always darkspawn in the deep roads.” He frowned a bit. “The Warden goes down and kills as many darkspawn as possible. The dwarves respect us for it.”

The elf shivered at the thought. “Is that how a Warden is supposed to…die?”

“No,” he admitted, “it’s mostly tradition.”

The elf watched Alistair as he spoke, saw the resigned fear that showed there. “And what about children?”

A very confused look appeared on his face. “Pardon?”

“Children, Alistair. You know, young people.”

He turned his head slightly, “I know what children are, Adela. I’m not sure I know what the question is.”

She leaned closer to the other Warden, frowning, concern showing so clearly on her face. “Can Wardens have children?”

“What brought this on?” he asked, confused, and not sure he wanted to have this conversation with her.

She sighed, running her hands through her hair as she turned her back to her friend. “I had reason to be concerned that perhaps I was pregnant a while back,” Alistair frowned, and then scowled, recalling her telling him of the rape. “But Wynne assured me that I was fine, save that, well, there were signs pointing to that possibility.” She relaxed a bit. “Those signs have, fortunately, resolved themselves.” She turned back to him. “But, something Wynne said raised questions in my mind and now I find that I need to know: did any of the wardens you knew have families?”

Understanding dawned on him, and he nodded. “There were a few who were married and had children. And, I think some of those had children after joining.” A frown marred his face. “But, they were men. I have no idea about female wardens having children.” He turned to fully face her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “This is very important to you, isn‘t it?”

She bowed her head, trying very hard to let go of the fresh wave of anger she was currently feeling toward Duncan. She nodded. “Very much so.” She sighed, moving forward and placing her head on Alistair’s chest. The young man took advantage of her close proximity and put his arms around her. “All of my life I had wanted children.” She chuckled a little against him. He rather liked the feel of it. “I know it may sound silly, especially where we’re facing a Blight and I am not even betrothed any longer, but, for a moment, it was like all of the rest of my dreams were about to be tossed away.” She looked up. “And I don’t really have very many dreams left to hold onto. Giving this one up would have been, well…too much.”

A large, calloused hand brushed stray locks of blond from her eyes, and warm, amber eyes gazed into the peerless depths of elven blue. “If I have anything to say about it,” he whispered, gazing into her eyes, “you won’t have to give up anymore of your dreams.”

She smiled, thinking that there was no way he could even contemplate keeping that promise, but that she very much appreciated the sentiment anyway. “I suppose we need to stop the Blight first?” She shook her head, feeling a little foolish. “No sense in getting caught up in dreams while the nightmare still needs to be dealt with.”

Her fellow Warden snorted and chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so.” His look turned thoughtful. “Speaking of family,“ a wistful smile crossed his young face, “I’d also like to set up a memorial or something for Duncan,” he sighed, “I think he was from Highever.” He looked hopefully at the elf in his arms. “Maybe I’ll go there after all of this is done and set something up for him.”

“I think he would like that,” Adela smiled, and then pushed herself away from him. Alistair gave small whine at that. “Maybe I can go with you when you do.”

“I think that Duncan would have liked that quite a lot.”

“It’s too bad that the Warden headquarters is at the palace,” the elf said. “I’d really like to get some of the records from there while we were in Denerim.”

“What about the safe house?” Alistair asked, recalling Duncan mentioning that in his letter to Adela.

She shrugged. “I planned on our checking it out, but I seriously doubt any records would be kept there. I think the safe house was mostly as a place to restock and hide when necessary.”

They sat quietly for a moment, and then, Adela nodded her head, she clapped her hands together once, feeling much better than she had earlier. “Good. It’s settled. So, for now, we’ll just go ahead and find the lost Urn of Sacred Ashes, get these silly treaties acknowledged, kill the Archdemon and then set up a memorial.” She grinned up into his face. “Now, what else is there for us to do?”

Chuckling, Alistair nudged her with his shoulder. “Let’s get some sleep and see what the morning brings, eh?”

DA:O

While wandering the castle Adela happened upon the scaled model of Castle Redcliffe her father had created years ago, the very artwork that had graduated Adela from apprentice to artist. The sculpture - created from wood, ivory, stone and metal - lay sprawled along the vast mantle of the fireplace in the great hall where they had earlier battled against a possessed Teagan and the undead guards. She stood staring at it, and when Teagan found her admiring it, he began to tell her of its creation and how it had been a naming day gift to Eamon from the king and queen. Grinning broadly, Adela then advised the Bann that it had been crafted by her father and herself, and she explained how it had been crafted using an artist’s rendering of the castle. Dumbfounded, the Bann stammered an apology, unaware that the artist herself stood beside him. With a gentle shake of her head, she told him there was no need for an apology, and she should have stopped him then moment he began to speak. Her only excuse for not doing so: she enjoyed listening to others talk of her work, and was always amazed at how others may view the creations of her father and herself. She expressed gratitude that it had been given such a prominent place in the castle.

And so, inspired, she settled down with wood in hand, examining it, seeking the form buried within the wood. She looked up, frowning. She wanted to create something for Isolde, but carving it from wood was not the medium it should be in. Deciding to put that idea aside, she turned back to the wood, and began carving off the pieces that did not belong.

She hoped Roland would like it.

DA:O

The next day dawned cool with a light breeze, the sun shining and barely a cloud in the sky. The group left early after a light breakfast with the Bann. Wynne was remaining behind, as the Arlessa still needed healing, and the elder mage did not feel it safe just yet to leave her. So, it was decided that Niall, a competent healer in his own right, would accompany the group in her stead. The mage was nervous, but excited about the possibility of visiting Denerim, a city he recalled vaguely from his childhood before being taken away by the Templars for the Tower. After their farewells to Wynne, Irving, Teagan and Artemis (who was not happy about being left behind), the group left the castle to head to Denerim.

Niall walked beside Adela for much of the morning, still trying to convince the reluctant elf of his idea of sending her into the Fade. Adela would only shake her head, telling him that if she ever decided to give that particular experiment a try, it would be well after the Blight was ended. The mage frowned, trying to look pitiful. Adela only laughed, telling him that the puppy dog eyes don’t even work on her when Hafter tries them. Niall glanced over at the dog, which was at that moment chasing after squirrels and promptly gave up.

Her eyes wandered back, taking in her companions who followed. As always, the Sten marched at the rear, confident that his blade could cut down any ambushing foe with ease. Adela found that she shared that confidence.

Leliana walked slightly in front of the massive warrior, her bow slung with ease over one delicate shoulder, her face withdrawn, her eyes glancing every now and again toward the dark and brooding figure of Morrigan, who marched ahead of her with purposeful strides, completely and obviously ignoring the doe eyed glances of the Orlesian. Adela felt a bit of pity for the Orlesian; Morrigan had steadfastly rebuked every advance the red head had made, and had not always done so nicely.

Roland and Alistair walked just behind the elf and mage, talking with ease to one another. Most likely discussing weapons and armor, the elf grinned to herself, turning her attention back forwards.

Niall was a pleasant traveling companion. He was quiet, thoughtful and she found herself smiling often as he stared at the wide world they now travel along. Ever since her first visit to the tower, the elf had felt pity and sympathy for the mages imprisoned therein. Never to be treated as people, never allowed any semblance of freedom. In her mind, the Tower, despite the luxuries it may present on the surface, was a far worse place to live than any Alienage she had ever heard of.

So, while Niall gazed about, gathering elf roots and death root along their path, the conversation of the two men behind her a background buzz, Adela allowed herself to think back to the conversation she and Teagan had regarding Loghain. The pain was still there; the pain that someone she had known for more than half of her life, who had always treated her as an equal, who would admonish her for ever considering herself ‘just an elf’, had betrayed all that he had fought for. Perhaps it was time to let go of my childhood infatuation, she thought glumly, looking up into the sky. I just wish it could have been a far easier release. She frowned, knowing full well that regardless of what may have happened, she would always respect Loghain, and despite what he may have done now, he would always be a hero to her.

She heard Alistair laugh aloud at something Roland had said, and found herself smiling, glancing back as the Warden clapped a hand upon the other warrior’s shoulder. Roland was grinning, wiping a gauntleted hand across his eyes, swiping away a tear of laughter. Her eyes settled upon Alistair’s smiling face and, seeing her look, the blond man’s smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. The elf’s smile widened and Roland turned to her, offering a mischievous wink.

With a shake of her head, the elf continued to lead the group westward, toward Denerim.

DA:O

Dark eyes watched as the group passed by, narrowing slightly with disdain. They then settled upon the smiling face of the red haired man, joking with the other human man, flirting with the elf. Blinking slowly, the figure moved silently between the trees and through the underbrush, shadowing the group’s progress westward.

DA:O

Darkness fell quickly, and the group had to gather wood and light a fire before they were able to do anything else for preparing camp. The cool breeze that had been pleasant during their walk turned bitter. The campfire added light and warmth to the area.

Hafter had gone hunting, returning to camp three times with barely mangled rabbits in mouth. Giggling, Adela and Leliana sat down and skinned the rabbits while Alistair and Roland took on the extra duties of setting up their tents while the two women cut the meat into pieces, tossing them into a pot of boiling water. Morrigan added herbs and wild vegetables to the soup, making it far more palatable.

After supper was eaten, Adela made the rounds of speaking with each companion, as had become her habit during their journeys.

The Sten had finally deigned to answer her ongoing questioning of why he had killed the members of the farm hold. To the elf, that had seemed almost out of character. He told her of his and his brethren’s encounter of darkspawn at Lake Calenhad, and how he had been the only one to survive, thanks to the farmers taking him in. When he had discovered that his sword, Asala, was missing, he panicked, killing every member of the farm hold. With a tilt of her head, the elf remarked that she would never have known the Qunari to panic, and, with obvious shame, the giant proceeded to tell that the sword had been for his hand alone; without it, he could never return home without being mistaken for a traitor. Adela searched the giant’s face, noting the rare emotion - shame - that crossed his broad features.

“We’ll find it,” the elf promised, laying a tiny hand on his massive arm. His lavender eyes fixed on the small appendage.

“Perhaps those are empty words,” he replied heavily, his eyes rising to meet hers, “however they are appreciated.” He bowed his head. “Thank you, Warden.” With those words, he stepped away to meditate.

Morrigan was in no humor to speak that evening, still enthralled with her mother’s grimier as well as studiously avoiding the Orlesian.

Leliana, on the other hand, was very much in the mood to speak, apologizing for keeping a secret, and confessing that she was trained as a bard back in Orlais. Adela’s blue eyes widened; she recalled her mother telling her of Maric’s mistress, an Orlesian bard who ended up betraying them all. Leliana quieted, her head bowed somewhat as the elf studied her, thinking over the many talents the red head had displayed during their time together. Why she hadn’t seen it before was beyond her, and she gave a silent apology to her mother.

“Thank you, Leliana,” the elf replied quietly. The bard looked up, surprise in her eyes. She knew how well Adela valued honesty. Knew also the elf’s predisposition against Orlesians on the whole and, with a mother who had fought against Orlais during the rebellion, how against bards in general she would have been. Adela saw these thoughts flicker in the blue eyes upon her face, and offered up a small smile. “Leli,” she said, using the nickname the bard had tried getting her to use before, “we have been traveling together for some time now.” Her smile broadened, and Leliana’s expression lifted. “We are friends, and I can understand why you may not have said anything before now.” She stepped closer, offering a hug to the human woman. “If you ever want to talk about anything,” she pushed her arm, keeping her hands on her shoulders. “All you need to do is say something.”

The Orlesian took a deep breath and thanked the elf. With a quick kiss to Adela’s smooth cheek, the bard bounded off for her tent, wanting to take in some reading before it grew too late.

Niall was exhausted and had retired for the evening. Roland and Alistair were busy sparring. Smiling at the pair, the elf gathered her carving tools and sat upon the ground, her back against a log the Sten had pulled into the camp’s center earlier, and began to work the wood into the shape.

DA:O

The next day found the group battling against a large group of darkspawn. The monsters had ambushed a caravan of refugees, who were holding their own against the dark threat, but tiring quickly. Adela and Leliana took stances opposite from each other, raining arrows upon the field, removing many of the darkspawn from the fight.

Morrigan threw her cold spells out, freezing several of the beasts. Then, with a quick word, shape shifted into the form of the great black wolf, rushing at the large bodies of the hurlock that blocked their path. Hafter, having long since gotten used to the human in wolf shape, charged at her side, knocking a group of genlock from their feet.

Niall, his main focus being in healing and creation, kept casting healing and rejuvenating spells upon the warriors, casting glyphs of warding as well as paralysis as needed. Spotting the hurlock emissary further in the back of the darkspawn group, the mage cast a paralysis spell, followed closely by a glyph of repulsion. The ensuing explosion paralyzed several of the hurlock in the emissary’s vicinity. The refugees battling in that area were able to quickly dispatch the paralyzed darkspawn.

The Sten’s great sword swept out and around, cleaving one genlock in half at the waist as it continued its circuit to decapitate another genlock, and then severely injuring a third.

Alistair’s shield met the emissary’s face, crushing its nose, its forehead bashing soundly against the hard metal, knocking it to the ground. The Warden swung his blade up and then down, driving it point first into the emissary’s chest, killing it as the finely wrought blade punctured its heart. With a deep breath, he turned to engage another nearby foe.

Ducking beneath the sweeping arc of the hurlock’s axe, Roland jabbed out with his sword, slipping easily into the ill made armor the beast wore. It growled down at him as he twisted the blade, straightening, and then slamming his shield into its ugly face. It staggered, but did not fall, bringing its weapon to bear against the human. The knight allowed a small, humorless smile upon his lips as he pulled his blade free to quickly jab it once again into the hurlock’s body. The growl turned into a scream of pain as the blade found a vital organ. Satisfied, the knight twisted, jabbed in further, jerked the blade to the side, cutting into the organs of the tainted creature. With a gurgle, the darkspawn fell from his blade, dropping gracelessly to the blood soaked ground.

The battle was over in minutes. All of the darkspawn were dead; many of the refugees lay upon the tainted ground never to rise again, but the majority had lived and, in these ill times, that was enough. Refusing a reward, Adela gathered her party, making certain that everyone was still in one piece. Any injuries were tended to by Niall, who had also aided the refugees with healing as well. The leader of the group advised the Wardens that they are heading to Highever, seeking refuge there. Adela told them that they may want to turn around and head to Redcliffe, that ill tidings have come out from Highever, and that the fishing village was in need of residents as well as those willing to fight. She smiled as she indicated that this group definitely proved the latter. The leader thought about it a moment, and decided to take the Warden upon her suggestion. With a final thanks, the refugees repacked their belongings, searched out any wandered off livestock, and then turned their path toward the fishing village of Redcliffe.

Later that evening found the companions camped alongside the road yet again.

And none of them were aware of the pair of dark eyes watching.

DA:O

The next day brought them nearer to Denerim. Adela’s feet had a sluggish feel, her legs heavy, her heart sore at the thought of returning to the city. She did not doubt that she and Alistair, along with their rag tag assortment of companions, could blend in well within the city, so full with refugees and foreigners as it was bound to be. Her internal battle was over whether to visit the Alienage. She had fears that, regardless of what the Captain of the Guard may have said when Duncan conscripted her, those dwelling within the contained community may have suffered for her crimes. And so she walked as though weights had been shackled upon her ankles, each step harder to take than the last.

Alistair was not oblivious to the elf’s strange behavior. She was always the one to encourage the others to pick up the pace, quicken their steps, maybe even start a tidy little tune to march by (well, that was always Alistair’s contribution). So, he moved to her side, trying to get her to speak. But, whatever was weighing her down also seemed to have sewn her mouth shut. So, he countered in the only way he could: he kept talking.

“So,” he had been rambling on for many minutes, watching the elven woman from the corner of his eye, “you know how Arl Eamon raised me, right?”

That got a reaction: the elf actually scoffed at the ‘raised me’ part. He flinched a little, knowing well just what Adela thought of Art Eamon’s child rearing techniques. He plunged on.

“Well, anyway, my mother was a servant, and she apparently had a daughter from a prior relationship,” Adela looked up at the taller human, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Her name is Goldanna,” the other warden continued, glad to at least get her attention. “Ah, here daughter, that is. And she lives in Denerim. In the market district I believe.”

She turned, “Goldanna is your sister?” her voice was calm.

He nodded. “You know of her?”

“Yes,” she admitted, not certain what to say. She knew Goldanna. Goldanna worked days as a laundress and had a sharp tongue and little to no love for elves of any sort. She also had a great many children, but no husband. She had heard rumors about the woman, but had never truly paid any attention. Both Adela and Cyrion had made a conscious decision to not share any of their gold with the taciturn woman. And, because of their varied circles of friends, had seen that others did not visit upon the woman - in whatever capacity her services may range.

But, here was Alistair, her friend, wanting to see the only living blood relative he had left. Perhaps Goldanna would prove to be more accepting…

“Alistair,” her voice was very soft. “Do you want to visit her when we reach the city?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Alistair asked, “Can we?” There was such a hopeful, childlike tremor in his voice.

Adela smiled, her steps seeming less weighted. “Of course, Alistair,” she tilted her head so that she could look into his face better. “For something this important, we can certainly make the time.”

Relief flooding through him, Alistair did the only thing that seemed natural at the moment: he gave a whoop, pulled the elf into his arms, and gave her a sound kiss on her surprised mouth.

The elven warden’s cheeks flushed bright pink and Alistair, realizing what he had just done, had the sense to blush his own crimson. Wynne and Leliana found it amusing, while Morrigan merely scoffed with disgust. The Sten kept his own opinion to himself, and Niall, for some reason, looked embarrassed. Roland, however, graced the male warden with a glare as he strode over and gently pulled Adela from his arms, pulling her along. Alistair watched as the knight bent down to whisper something to the elf and the others walked by.

Feeling a bit silly for acting so impulsively, the young warden followed closely behind.

DA:O

Entering the city was no trouble. No one gave even the armed elf a second glance, something that surprised them all. Roland bent forward slightly, offering that perhaps the influx of refugees also brought in mercenaries, many of which could very well be elven. Adela nodded; that theory made the most sense and would work well in their favor. If mercenaries had infiltrated the city, then their rather odd group would do well to blend in even better than initially anticipated.

They made their way westerly, through the winding streets of the capital of Fereldan. Adela noticed that the streets seemed busier than she recalled, with many carts and wagons lining along the wide streets. With a start, she realized that many of those wagons were filled with families who apparently were living out of them. The streets were dirtier, more crowded, with more trash strewn about. Certainly not Fereldan’s Capitol as she remembered.

Much of her distress was displayed openly upon her face and Roland, who had been walking beside her for some time, put an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close and offering words of encouragement. The knight, who had also frequented the city with the Teyrn and his family on numerous occasions, felt the general wrongness of the city that was known as the Jewel of Fereldan.

The further into the city, the closer to the market place, the more of a sense of that wrongness assailed not just the elf who had lived there or the knight who was most familiar with the place, but the others as well. Faces they passed by were blank slates, or fearful masks. Even children could sense it and so there were few running and playing in the streets, little cries of joy or screaming in play. The closer to the market place they came, the more oppressed the atmosphere. Adela had to fight the urge to just turn around and run away. Run as far as she could from the city of her birth, the city wherein dwelt her people, the city where almost everyone she had ever cared for lived (or so was her hope). Run? She shook herself mentally, setting that ridiculous notion aside. The only time in her life Adela had ever felt she had run away from anything was when Duncan had conscripted her into the Wardens. She took another look around. These people needed hope, and as far as Adela was concerned, that only hope was in the form of the two Wardens who walked the streets. Well, she amended looking over her rather odd assortment of friends, the two wardens and their merry band of misfits.

During her musings and courage gathering, Roland had slid up to her side, walking quietly beside her, watching as the array of emotions and thoughts crossed her face. When she finally noticed his presence, she looked up, giving him a half-hearted smile.

“Are you alright?” the knight asked, concern etched upon his handsome face.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “I’m just trying to fight the ‘fight or flee’ urge that suddenly overwhelmed me,” she grinned up into his face.

“Oh?” he asked, a fine red brow rising in a good imitation of her own familiar gesture. “And are you winning?”

Chuckling, she bumped into him with her shoulder, which only came to about his elbow. The knight was chivalrous enough to at least pretend at a stumble. “I think that I’ll be fine,” her eyes were wandering again, taking not of the street that would lead them to the market district. “Perhaps if I could get word of the Alienage, that may help ease my concerns.”

And so, to distract her from her concerns and growing worries, the knight started to tell the elven woman about the times he had visited Denerim.

He had spent a lot of his time at the Cousland estate located in the noble district, and then the palace guarding the family during official business. He spoke of his duties, and then segwayed into how he spent his times off duty with his fellow soldiers and knights.

“The Gnawed Noble’s Tavern is a popular spot,” he was saying in a rather off handed fashion. “They brag of having seventy-five different ales, even from Orzammar.” He was grinning with fond memories, his eyes slightly distant. “I remember one night a bunch of us deciding to try each and every ale before we left Denerim for our perspective duties.”

Frowning slightly, Adela said, “Oh, so just one of the boys, eh?”

Roland didn’t quite catch the slightly disapproving tone in the young woman’s voice. “For some of the best liquors, however, nothing beats the Pearl.”

Here Adela’s brows shot up to almost disappear into her hairline. “The Pearl?” She stopped, hands on her hips, staring at the knight. Alistair, who had been listening, tried hard to hide a smile at the expense of his rival. Roland, finally realizing what he had said and to whom he had said it, had the grace to flush slightly before stammering. “I-I only visited the tavern there,” he did not want Adela to think of him as some kind of wenching human or that he frequented such establishments.

“Ah, ha,” came her disbelieving comment. She glanced at Alistair, taking note of his struggles with his own face. With a shake of her head, she resumed leading their group to the market place. “Roland, what you do or have done is truly none of my business,” Roland actually flinched at the biting tone her voice had. “However,” she tilted her head toward him a bit. “I would certainly prefer not hearing about it.”

Dipping his head slightly, the knight resumed his pace beside the elf, trying to salvage the conversation by telling her of the gardens at the Cousland estate. Alistair, who finally allowed the huge smile to find its place firmly on his face, marched a bit straighter than he had been previously.

The street leading into the market place narrowed slightly, and then turned a corner, opening wide to the square like center that was the Market District. Small homes lined the perimeter of the open courtyard that housed dozens of tents, awnings, carts and tables lined with items as varied as fruits and vegetables and other foodstuffs, to armor and weapons, jewelry and other trinkets.

The chantry over looked the entire area and, as always, a pair of priests stood just beyond the stone entryway, reciting the Chant of Light.

Hawkers shouted their wares; children ran about and around the feet of their mothers as they haggled and paid for their purchases. The combined odors of food, sweets, oils, leather and spices assailed their senses. Adela stopped, closing her eyes, inhaling the aromas. The sounds, sights and smells - all of these bespoke ‘home’ to the little elf.

She did not see the admiring smiles from both the knight and Warden. Nor the glares that each gave one another.

The elf opened her eyes, leading the group further into the district. Leliana instantly started her animated chatter, wanting to visit the stalls. Morrigan had stopped, staring about herself in wonder, her eyes settling upon the awning covered jewelry cart. Beside that cart was a stall filled with fine silks and other colorful materials. Both women, with a glance to one another, started heading to those stalls. Adela had to call them back, reminding them of the real reason they were in Denerim. Both women - no, really girls - started bemoaning the pretty cloth and jewels, and couldn’t they just go and see? Did Adela really need all of them to meet with a stodgy old scholar anyway? It was the pair of them batting their eyelashes at the diminutive elf that finally made her just wave her hand at them, sending them away. They even giggled! Morrigan giggled!

The baker’s cart caught the Sten’s attention and the giant made a beeline toward the sweets, Hafter, who had taken a liking to the giant, close at his heels. Adela rolled her eyes when Niall of all people went and joined the massive warrior, eying the tasty treats out on display.

Well, she thought as she passed by her shopping friends, at least Alistair and Roland didn’t abandon me.

Adela was too busy watching the four shoppers, smiling, that she did not notice when they approached Goldanna’s home, situated along the market itself. Alistair’s voice broke her reverie.

“That…that’s it,” he breathed, moving closer to the elf, nodding his head toward a small house. “I think that’s the address.” He glanced down at Adela, who had turned and was nodding her head in affirmation. “Can we…can we go in?” he seemed so childlike at that moment; Adela hoped Goldanna would not hurt him.

“Are you certain you want me to go in with you?” she asked, eyeballing the wooden door.

Confused, Alistair looked down at his friend. “Of course! Do you really think I could do something like this without you by my side?” He chuckled nervously. “I’d probably say something really stupid and then where we would be?”

“Alistair, you would never say anything so stupid that your sister would disown you,” she said, although she wasn’t certain how convincing she sounded.

“Pleeeeaassse?” He even clasped his hands in front of him, his eyes assuming such a pitiful puppy dog look. Roland merely rolled his eyes.

Biting her lower lip, certain that this was not going to end well, the elf relented. Roland offered to wait outside and so the pair entered the tiny home.

The entry was neat and tidy, and there was a strong smell of clean about the place. A feminine voice called from the back room, asking them to wait a moment. The pair glanced at one another, and a woman of perhaps thirty odd years approached, not fully focusing on the duo.

“I charge ten bits a bundle,” she was saying, her obvious lack of education clearly apparent in her voice, “And don’t go to that Natalya woman, she’s foreign and will steal ya blind.”

Her brown eyes focused on the pair, quickly dismissing Adela and turning to focus upon the handsome young man before her. The smile broadened a great deal, her hip jutted out and a slim hand perched thereon.

“Ahm,” Alistair stammered, trying to gather his thoughts. Adela placed a small hand inside one of his larger ones. He glanced down briefly and then smiled. “I’m sorry,” he turned back to his sister. “I’m not here for laundry, I’m…well, are you Goldanna?” The woman’s eyebrow flinched up in irritation. “Sorry, yes, of course you are. Well, since you’re Goldanna then that makes me, well, your brother,” his voice cracked here a bit as a look of incredulity crossed the older woman’s face. He cleared his throat. “I’m your brother,” he said with far more confidence.

“My brother?” the woman’s voice was soft, amazed. Her face and expression quickly hardened, her eyes taking on a calculating quality. “Fat lot of good that does me!” she scoffed, tossing her hands toward the stunned young man. “I told them that the babe was the king’s, and all they told me was that mother and the babe was dead! Dead!” she nearly screeched. “Gave me a coin and a pat on my head, telling me to be on my way. Well,” she stepped forward, a bony finger in Alistair’s chest, who backed up against the door, his hand now clutching at Adela’s. “That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back for more they runned me off. Bah!” she scoffed again, scorn filling her voice.

“Goldanna,” Adela spoke up, her voice calm and soothing, “Alistair came here to find his family…”

“Phwt!” the human woman spat. “And who are you?” she demanded, taking a menacing step to the smaller elf, “Some knife-eared tart out for his money?”

Money? Before Adela could respond, Alistair straightened, his amber eyes taking on a hard look, “Don’t you dare talk to her that way!” he took a step forward, Goldanna retreated. “She’s my friend, and a Grey Warden, like I am!”

“Ooohhh….” the woman taunted, “Fancy that, a Prince and a Grey Warden too. Well, who am I to speak to those so much more worthy than I!” her voice was venom. “I don’t know you, boy. All I know is that you killed mother, and left me with five hungry mouths to feed! If you can’t see to it that your family lives as they should, then I have less than no use for you!”

Alistair was taken aback. His good heart wanted to make certain that his family was, indeed, taken care of. But any funds they did have were used to feed, armor and resupply the group as they continued on their quest to stop the Blight. He glanced down at the elf, who was staring at the human woman with an almost unreadable expression.

“Adela…” he began, but she shook her head, still staring at the human woman.

“No, Alistair,” she said firmly, “we have worked hard for whatever coin we have, and we need it far more than this wench does!”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she screeched at them to leave her home. With a final glare at the other woman, Adela turned Alistair around and pushed him out the door, slamming it forcefully behind her.

And she steered him well away from the other companions, around the corner, and against a wall. Her hands on his chest, Adela could feel the tension leave the young man. She looked up into his face and saw utter disappointment there.

“I’m sorry, Alistair,” she said softly, a hand reaching up to stroke his cheek. He bowed his head slightly.

“I cannot believe that I’ve wondered my whole life about that…that gold digging harridan!” he wanted to shout, but didn’t. A hand rose up to cover Adela’s much smaller one. “Thank you,” he whispered, bringing her hand down and giving it a kiss. “I needed you there.”

The elf nodded, stepping forward to give him a hug. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But, you know,” she looked him in the eye, a smile curving her lips. “You don’t need that hussy. You have plenty of people who care about you.”

“Yeah, right,” he mumbled, “Duncan was the only person who did, and he’s dead.”

Her brow rose and she gave him a slight push. “Hey! What am I?” she teased smiling. “I care about you too, you know.”

Now it was Alistair biting his lower lip. “Hey, yeah,” he quipped, pulling her close into another hug, kissing the top of her head. “You do, don’t you?”

She nodded, pulling away. “Come on,” she pulled at his hand, “we’ve a scholar to see, some more shopping to do. And,” she grinned. “a Warden safe house to explore.”

　

[SheilaD67]

I own nothing save for Adela. Bioware has my eternal gratitude for creating this world and letting me play in their sandbox.

I’m still not going canon with the game or the books - just some twists to make things fit to my story.

As always, thank you all for the reviews: mutive, Biff McLaughlin, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, mutive, CCBug. And thanks to everyone who has been alerting and favoriting this as well. You have no idea how much this means! Reviews & even concrit are welcome (well, kinda. Okay, okay…marginally welcome).

DragonAge: Origins: The Halla Reborn
Chapter 22

Adela decided to wait until later to see the scholar, as she was unsure as to the length of time they would spend speaking with the brother. If he’s even here, she thought to herself. So, her companions continued to shop at the market. Even Alistair and Roland had turned to the dwarven merchant selling weapons and armor from Orzammar. Grinning at the group, especially at the bouncing Hafter begging sweets from the Sten, the elf turned to a nearby fletcher’s booth.

As she walked over, she passed by an older knight, dressed in shining armor, his blond hair pulled back with braids, his blue eyes piercing. The elf glanced up, and then away, thinking the man looked familiar but could not quite place him. As she neared the booth, she felt a firm hand on her arm, a whispered command to follow him. She looked up and frowned into the blond knight’s face. Who was he, she wondered as she let him draft her to a side street beyond the Gnawed Noble Tavern.

“Adela Tabris,” the knight almost hissed out, maintaining his composure. “I had thought you died along with the rest of the treacherous Wardens!”

She blinked, staring at the angered knight. Ser Landry! “Ser Landry,” she replied, her voice calm. “I can assure you that the Wardens did not betray Cailan…”

“King Cailan!” he snarled. Then, collecting himself, he backed away, blinking to clear his eyes, but maintaining his grip on her upper arms. They were starting to hurt and she was certain she would have bruises had she not been wearing heavy leather. “I would never have thought that you of all people would betray your friend.”

She firmly shook her head, stepping nearer the knight, assuming a strong posture as she stared at him. “I have no idea what truly happened at Ostagar,” the elf admitted. “However, the Grey Wardens’ sole duty in life is the eradication of darkspawn and ending Blights. Why would they give up the King of Fereldan to darkspawn?” Her head tilted to the side, “What could they have gained dying on the field with the very monsters they are foresworn to destroy?”

Ser Landry’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head. “Teyrn Loghain…”

But Adela cut him off, “Ser Landry,” her voice was quiet, “Cailan, Anora and myself had noticed certain…oddities about Loghain’s behavior lately.” She watched the knight’s face. Ser Landry had always been rather expressive, and she could see the doubt there as well. “You have noticed it as well, I take it?”

Releasing her arms, the knight brushed a gauntleted hand through his hair, mussing up the braids. “Adela, there have been many stressors…”

“Trust me,” she placed a small hand on his arm. “I am aware of many of those. And Cailan and I had discounted his behavior as having to do with those. However, we have a dead king, dead Wardens, less than half the force we used to have, and still face a Blight.”

Putting his hands back on her arms, Ser Landry stared into her eyes for several moments, trying to collect his thoughts. Both sets of eyes widened when a curved dagger was pressed under the knight’s chin.

“I would strongly suggest that you release the lovely Warden, my friend,” a heavily accented voice warned. Raising his hands, Ser Landry released Adela, taking a step back.

Adela was surprised to see Zevran of the Antivan Crows threatening the knight. “Ah, that is very good, yes?” the Antivan asked, still keeping his hold on the knight, the blade still at his throat.

“Zevran,” the female elf warned, “remove the knife from Ser Landry’s throat.”

A golden brow rose, “Are you quite sure, my dear?” he didn’t sound convinced. “After all, I watched as he pulled you back here, and then threatened you.”

“A simple misunderstanding,” the Warden explained, her eyes firm upon Zevran’s tawny orbs. “Ser Landry is a friend, and a confused one at that,” she offered the knight a small smile. “Please, Zevran, stop threatening this man.”

Frowning, clearly not liking the idea of releasing the man he had watched threaten the woman who had spared his life, the Antivan Crow pulled back the knife, holding it aloft between thumb and palm, both hands upraised in a non-threatening gesture, as he backed away. “As you wish, my dear Grey Warden.”

Certain the assassin would remain where he stood, the elven Warden turned back to the human knight. “Ser Landry,” her voice was still quiet, but the man heard her and stepped closer. “Has anyone else commented upon Loghain’s behavior?”

A frown crossing his noble face, the knight nodded. “A few of us have had occasion to comment upon it.” He looked up. “I believe that Bann Alfstanna and Arl Wulff have been more outspoken about it, although not to the Teyrn himself.”

Nodding, she advised, “I would suggest not taking Arl Howe into your confidences.”

His face darkening, the knight nearly spat. “Howe! That lickspittle would never be included in any of our conversations regarding the weather.” Fury was written across the man’s lined face. “That man has somehow ingratiated himself as Loghain’s closest advisor.” His scowl deepened. Zevran moved closer, his knife ready, as he could not hear the words, but could definitely see that the human was irate.

That little bit of information was tucked away in Adela’s mind, to be discussed with her companions at a later date. For now…

“Ser Landry,” he turned to her. “Please, just keep an eye on Teyrn Loghain. And the queen, if possible,” his eyes dulled at that. Oh, so he hasn’t been able to see her, she thought. “Just let us continue trying to stop the Blight.”

The knight bowed low, “You have my word, Adela, that I will not interfere.” He straightened. “Perhaps later on, we may even be able to assist you.”

“Keep safe,” she placed a hand on his arm. “For now, we need to ensure that any allies we have are just kept safe.”

With a final bow, the knight turned and walked away.

The female elf watched as Ser Landry turned the corner, thankful it was him who approached her and not someone more toadying to either Loghain or Howe. She knew the knight somewhat from her visits to the palace. He was a close friend to Loghain, someone who shared the same views regarding politics, nobles, and Orlais. He had always been respectful and kind to the elven artisan, stating once that he had long admired her mother, and she had no cause now to believe he would betray her and reveal her presence in the city.

Of course, she told herself as she turned her eyes to the male elf who was watching her with keen interest. I had thought the same of Loghain.

“Zevran of the Antivan Crows,” she spoke, he smiled. “What in the name of the Maker are you doing here?”

“Ah, my dear,” he said as smoothly as he walked to her side, gazing down at her. “I had thought much about the beautiful Grey Warden who so kindly spared my life. And I thought ‘Zevran, how best could we repay the lovely one for her kindness?’” His eyes sparkled somewhat. “And, since it is doubtful you would accept one of my famous massages at so early an acquaintance, I decided to tail you,” he grinned suggestively at that. The woman merely rolled her eyes. “and offer my blades to your service.”

Adela blinked. Astonished. “You truly want me to allow you into our group?”

“Si,” was his simple reply.

“You tried to kill me,” she pointed out, poking a long, slender finger into his armored chest.

“And I failed,” he quipped back, catching hold of her hand, holding it lightly, “spectacularly, I might add.” He chuckled here, releasing her hand at her gentle tug. “As I told you, my life is forfeit. I have decided if that be the case, I would much rather spend it fighting against the Blight at the side of a most lovely creature than take my chances that a Crow blade never finds my back.”

Standing there, her arms crossed against her chest, the elven Warden watched the elven assassin standing before her. He had a somewhat lascivious smile upon his lips, but it did not quite reach his eyes. There, she saw something else. Almost a desperation that he was trying hard to conceal. But it was there. He was desperate for her to accept him, to allow him to travel with them. That he feared for his life was unmistakable. That she could trust him was another issue.

“How am I to be able to trust you, Zevran of the Antivan Crows?” she asked, using the full title to remind him that she was not about to forget how he had come to cross her path.

Zevran bowed his head slightly. “All I can do is pledge an oath to serve you,” he replied, his voice having lost the arrogant quality and was now just quiet. He raised his eyes to meet hers. “I have followed you from the ambush site to the tower, back to Redcliffe and then to here. There had been opportunities to ambush you, but instead I watched over you.” He smiled here. “You have a nasty habit of going into the woods alone, my dear.” He was rewarded by a widening of her eyes. “Of course, the two men you travel with never seem to want to leave you alone for too long.”

His gaze was scrutinizing; he watched every reaction from the elven woman, a slight shift of posture, eyes widening, lips tightening. No, she did not like to hear that he had been trailing after her and her group. But, perhaps she would recognize how many opportunities he had to harm her?

She was biting her lower lip. The assassin found that rather charming. His eyes skimmed over her form, appreciating the very elven-ness of her figure: all slight curves and gentle slopes. All of her features were those of the elder elves - sharp, delicate, beautiful, long slender ears, delicately boned. The Antivan was rather surprised as in his experience many of those elves from Alienages had begun to look more human: smaller ears, broader features, as though close proximity to humans were bleeding away any elven features from their very bodies. Her very appearance reminded him of stories of the ancient elves, long before their enslavement to humans.

Adela, in turn, was watching Zevran, fully aware of his scrutiny, bold in her own. She took in his features as she had before: he was beautiful, as elven men tended to be. Not as beautiful as Nelaros, however. He was far shorter than her betrothed had been but still taller than herself, with tanned skin, darkened from time under the sun. His eyes were tawny and calculating, always measuring, searching for weaknesses. His mouth was wide and seemingly easy to smile, but that, too, the elven Warden supposed was part of the package - all charm, suave, deadly. His face, however, held a slight weariness to it, something that at first glance one would miss. Especially if one focused solely upon the beauty of the man before them. Which, she presumed, many did, to their detriment.

This was one who has never known trust, and never given it, either. However, here he was, before her, asking that he be trusted, to earn that trust. She tilted her head, continuing to worry her lower lip. She had no doubt that should she take him in, the others would keep a wary eye on him. Most especially Roland and Alistair. Morrigan’s untrusting nature would make her a superb watcher over the assassin, and Leliana’s own history as a bard would make her ideal for noting any change of attitude the elf may arrive at. The Sten trusted no one and was always ready to decapitate any foes.

“Yes,” she said simply, watching as the elven assassin’s posture relaxed slightly, his eyes became less wary, and the general tiredness she had read across his features eased. “You will understand, however, that I will want your weapons handed over for a time,” she held out a hand. She watched as his eyes narrowed slightly, then glanced down at her hand. Frowning, the assassin did as instructed, handing over the two curved daggers he wore strapped to his hips. He pulled his bow free. She raised a brow at him. He returned the gesture with a grin, and then promptly started divesting himself of hidden knives and daggers concealed upon his body. A respectable pile formed on the ground before them.

Adela actually laughed, turning a smile upon the startled assassin. “Pick them up,” she waved at the pile, still laughing. “If you had that many knives hidden on your person,” she chuckled, watching as he bent to retrieve his weaponry, “you most likely have even more.” She watched as he tucked the weapons into their hidden places, taking note of each spot, fully aware that the assassin most likely would change their positions later when unobserved. Once he was situated, she handed him back his bow and daggers. “You wouldn’t be much good without your weapons,” she remarked, shaking her head. “A wonder you don’t accidentally cut yourself on all that blade!”

This time Zevran shared in the laugh, certain now that it was not truly at his expense. “Ah, my dear Warden,” he purred, sidling to her side, “it is a matter of how well they are positioned,” his smile took on a more suggestive meaning. “Every dagger can find a sheath.”

Blushing at the blatant innuendo, the elven woman shook her head. “Fine, fine. Now you get to meet the rest of the party.” Her grin broadened. “Some of them will be very interested in making your acquaintance, I am certain.”

“Ah, yes,” he quipped, stepping in beside her, his strides matching her own, fully aware of the glances the beautiful ‘couple’ was receiving from those they passed by. “I get to meet the family, as it were. I have watched them long enough, yes?” He grinned down at the smaller elf, who merely shook her head. “I promise not to embarrass you.”

DA:O

To say that Zevran’s inclusion into the company was well received would have been a blatant lie. As predicted, both Roland and Alistair strongly and vehemently opposed the idea of having someone who had actively tried to kill Adela tag along. The Sten grumbled at the idea, but otherwise remained silent. Morrigan made a biting comment about being aware of poisoned food, to which Zevran responded that it was always a good suggestion wherever they may be. Niall remained relatively quiet, although his dark eyes remained fixed upon Zevran’s face for many moments. She could only guess at what Wynne would say once they reunited with her at Redcliffe. Leliana alone seemed to think that having an Antivan Crow in the group was a good idea. When the elf quipped out a compliment to the bard about traveling in the company of such fine looking women, she frowned at him heavily, amending her earlier acceptance.

Alistair, quite concerned, pulled Adela aside. “Are you certain about this?” he asked.

“Alistair,” she took his hands in hers. “We need all the help we can get. He is very skilled, and I have you and Roland and the others watching him,” she missed the scowl Alistair gave at the mention of the red haired knight. “If he gets out of line, he dies. The Sten will see to that.”

The human Warden bent his head down, his forehead touching hers. “He’s already tried to kill you once,” he reminded her.

“And failed, with only myself, Roland and Hafter,” she reminded him. “What could he possibly do with everyone about?” She nudged him playfully in the shoulder. “With you watching out for me?”

The other Warden watched her carefully, appreciating her confidence in him to watch over her, but feeling it greatly unfair of her to do so. She may not return his feelings, and he had never known her to use her ‘feminine wiles’ on him before, but there was a first time for everything. He looked into her smiling face; no, he realized, she wasn’t playing with him. She truly trusted in his ability to look after her. He was relieved. He didn’t want to think that Adela had picked up any habits on how to control a man from either Leliana or Morrigan, both women who had no end of male attentions wherever they went.

Of course he could not resist that she had such faith in him. So, “Fine, fine,” he acquiesced, raising his hands in defeat. “But if ever there was an indication we’re desperate,” he waved his hands toward the elven assassin, who was watching the pair with interest, “I think it just came knocking.”

“Thank you, Alistair,” Adela smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she giggled at the look he gave her.

Roland had wanted to argue further about Zevran’s inclusion, but with Alistair agreeing he had no chance of success. And, since Adela was technically the leader of their motley band, Alistair her second, the decision had been made and the others - the knight included - would just have to accept that.

But, he meant to keep a close watch over the slippery elf.

DA:O

The Sten, Leliana and Morrigan offered to take Zevran back to camp and watch over him. The rest decided to do some more shopping before seeking out Brother Genetivi’s home.

As they rounded a corner, the Wonders of Thedas, a popular and fairly famous magic shop, came into sight.

“Oh!” Alistair exclaimed, smiling. “I remember Arl Eamon bought me a golem doll from here when I was a child.”

“A golem doll?” Adela asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Ahm, well…not so much a doll,” the young man quickly amended, “more of a statuette, an action figure. One that didn’t move.” He finished lamely.

“Ah ha,” the elf said, filing that bit of information away for later.

Flushing, Alistair opened the door to the shop, letting the others pass within before following.

Niall was, obviously, completely at home, browsing the wares, speaking with the quiet tranquil proprietor. Adela was browsing through the selection of mage robes when she found something unique. Pulling it free of its hanger, the elf examined the material.

A fairly clingy material, similar to that used for the mage robes found in the shop, it was cut in a low ’V’ neckline, bare arms (perfect for an archer) and a short skirt. Despite the neckline, it was not nearly as revealing as her Dalish armor. The tranquil walked over to her, explaining that these were Robes of the Rogue, an outfit some mages wore when they wished for more dexterity and protection as opposed to the usual garb that granted benefits to spell casting. After advising that the Robes would offer her as much - if not more - protection than the heavier studded leather she currently wore, the elf handed him the sovereigns he asked for, determined to give the Robes a try in battle.

The others made their own purchases, and together they left the shop.

Instead of turning to the right to head back into the main body of the market, Adela turned the group to the left, toward an abandoned warehouse. Finding the door locked, the elf deftly picked the lock and opened the door. The warehouse was dark and uninviting, but she led them inside anyway.

Niall whispered a word of magic, and a small glowing orb formed floating above his open palm, casting the interior of the abandoned warehouse in a soft light.

Crates and chests, shelves and mannequins filled the main chamber of the storage facility. None carried the insignia of the Grey Wardens.

Passing through a narrow doorway, Adela spotted the bookshelf outlined in Duncan’s letter. Taking Alistair by the arm, asking the others to wait in the first chamber, Adela moved toward the bookshelf, searching for the mechanism she knew would be there.

Ah, there you are, she thought as she stepped to the side of the bookshelf, pushing gently on the board that made up the shelf’s side. It clicked, and then with gentle fingers she pushed it upwards. Beneath the board was revealed a series of small wooden squares, set into the framework of the shelf. Adela placed a gentle finger on one and found that they moved about the frame. Upon each square were symbols, unknown to the elven warden. She reached into her pouch and pulled out Duncan’s note. After studying the combination he had written there, the elf began moving the squares around, pushing one to the side, another up, another down…continuing on until the patterns upon the squares formed the likeness of a claw. Alistair sucked in his breath behind her. “A griffon’s claw,” he murmured as a clicking sound came from the shelf. Looking at her fellow warden, Adela gave the shelf a shove to the side, and it slid over, revealing a smaller room.

As they stepped beneath the threshold, the room lit up, the sconces on the walls glowing with magical light. Alistair let out a low whistle as they surveyed the crates, chests, weapon racks and armor stands.

Much of what they found therein was on par with equipment they already had, yet some were of a far better quality. One set of silverite plate mail seemed a perfect fit for Alistair. The young warden complained about carrying all that metal, explaining it reminded him far too much of Templar armor. Adela reminded him that he was the one who often found himself in the very center of battle and she, for one, would feel better if he wore something sturdier than the splint he current wore. The warden agreed, determining that if he had to wear plate, Roland would as well and began a search for armor that would fit the smaller man.

There was no way that the group could carry all of the equipment found therein, and Adela felt strange about contemplating taking it to sell. So, they took what they needed - two sets of plate (Alistair planned to wait until they returned to camp to spring his little ‘gift‘ upon Roland), a set of leather that looked as though it would fit Zevran (Adela thought the armor he currently wore was rather substandard), back packs, dried and canned rations, bandages and other sundries, a few bladed weapons - and relocked the room.

DA:O

Their packs laden with the equipment they acquired from the safe house, the group resumed their search for Brother Genetivi’s home. Adela did not know of the Brother nor where his home was located, other than that it was in the Market District. As she led her companions around, trying to get a bearing (she had thought perhaps he would live near the Chantry, but that guess was a bust), she found herself staring at the closed gate to the Alienage. An unknown guard stood vigil at the gate, and as she neared, she noticed that the gate was bound with chains and locked. Panic gripped her and she did not notice the concerned calls of her companions as she dropped her pack to the ground and sprinted toward the gate.

A heavily armored man with dark brown hair and a kind face spotted her and rushed to intercept her. Roland and Alistair both dropped their own packs and hurried over, hands on their swords, ready to defend the elf. The unknown man arrived at her first, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her away from the gate before the guard there noticed her approach. The two knights noticed the elf’s startled expression as her eyes fixed upon her assailant’s face and saw her struggle against his firm hand, shaking her head and pointing toward the gate. The man only brought his other hand around and grasped both of Adela’s arms in his, continuing to pull her aside, saying something to her, a determined look upon his face. He was speaking lowly to her, and she seemed to calm somewhat, although there was an almost wild look in her eyes. Alistair and Roland made it to her side, hands on their weapons, looking as threatening as they could at the unknown man.

Sensing both men’s unease and battle ready, Adela held a hand to the side, her arm still held by the third man. “Easy,” she whispered, trying to get herself to relax. Her eyes fell back to the man who had intercepted her, his eyes alert and wary against the two men who came to the elf’s rescue. He looked over her shoulder to spy the mage, a great warhound at his feet, who had moved closer and was watching with great interest.

She turned her eyes back to the older man, who now turned his own eyes fully upon the elf he held. “Michael?” she whispered, frowning deeply, “What is going on?”

‘Michael’ breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the elf. “I was concerned that you would get to the gates,” he said, his voice hoarse and low, “Things are bad in the Alienage and if someone recognized you…””

Adela paled; Alistair moved closer, putting his arm around her shoulder, tucking her under his arm. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes. “How bad is it?” she asked, trembling.

“I’ll not lie to you, Adela,” Michael said, stepping slightly forward, his head bent, in an effort to keep their conversation between himself, the elf and her companions. “Once word got out about the…’incident’ at the Arl’s estates, people were rioting near the Alienage.” He frowned. “The Captain had tried to maintain order, and so locked the Alienage down to protect the residents. But,” he stopped there, his voice seeming to give out.

“What?” she barely squeaked, certain she knew the answer.

Michael took a deep breath before continuing. “The new Arl, this Rendon Howe,” Roland stiffened at his name, “ordered a purge of the Alienage.”

“No,” she whispered, her knees very nearly giving out. Alistair tightened his hold on her. Roland glanced back at the mage and motioned Niall nearer, fearing that Adela would have need of his aid. He then stepped closer, putting a hand upon her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Michael put a hand on her other shoulder. “I am very sorry, Adela,” he nearly choked. “The Captain truly meant to keep his word to you and the Grey Warden. There were to be no repercussions to the Alienage for what happened. But, Arl Howe…”

“Is a snake and murderer!” Roland hissed, his face reddening in anger.

Michael agreed with a nod, “I agree with you there, Ser Knight,” He frowned, extending a hand first to Roland and then Alistair. “I apologize. I am Sergeant Michael Kylon, what passes for the law in this part of Denerim.” He gave Niall a slight bow of his head.

The two warriors shook his hand in turn, Niall returning the bow. Michael continued, turning his attention back to Adela. “I have had no news of your father or cousins,” he said, flinching as the tears rolled down the young elf’s face. “Maker, if we could have prevented the purge, Adela, we would have.”

Swallowing thickly, unable to find her voice, Adela’s head fell forward, tears dripping from her eyes, plopping to the ground. Niall stood directly behind her, his hand resting lightly on her back. The mage knew not what had been said, but seeing Adela so distressed unsettled him. Alistair and Roland both shook their heads, Alistair mouthing ‘later’ to the confused mage.

Something about Michael’s posture told the elf that there was something more he was not telling her. Taking a breath, her head still bowed, she whispered, “What else, Michael?”

Closing his brown eyes, the sergeant continued, “After the purge, many of the bodies were just…left. The elves were not allowed to leave to bury their dead; no one would send anyone in to take care of the situation. A plague seems to be ravaging the Alienage, yet still the Arl will not allow healers to go in and help out.” He shook his head angrily. “I never thought I would say this aloud, but someone needs to put a very sharp pointy end into that man’s heart!”

Adela was startled by the man’s vehemence. She had known Michael since she was a child; he had always been a rather gentle man, just and honest to a fault. Which was probably one reason why he was still only a rank of sergeant and banished to guard the market district. He had always proven a friend to the elves in the Alienage. She looked into his eyes and saw the pain there. Oh, she had forgotten that he had been courting Naomi. And would have no word on his beloved’s state.

She felt ill, and found she could no longer stand under her own power. She would have fallen had Alistair’s grip not been so tight upon her. Her family…her home…they were in peril because of her! If she had just accepted her fate…just not fought Vaughan…perhaps then the others would have been able to return home - all of them - and the Alienage would remain safe. A groan escaped her lips and she bowed, her knees giving out completely as she twisted out of Alistair’s grasp and to the ground, kneeling and purging her stomach of its contents. Michael’s eyes closed in sympathy while Alistair bent to hold onto the elf as she continued to be sick upon the dirt ground.

Roland, his face stricken, turned back to the sergeant. “Is there anyway we can get in?”

Michael shook his head, turning to face the knight. “I am afraid not. Not even the city guard is allowed in. I’m not allowed in, and it’s my beat!” His frustration rolled off him in waves, and he threw his hands in the air in further emphasis of his dismay at the situation.

Adela seemed to have recovered herself, although her ears felt hot and had a terrible ringing, and she seemed to have tunnel vision, saw sparkles before her eyes, the edges of her vision dark. With a heavy sigh, she allowed Alistair to pull her up. Niall placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, allowing the tiniest tendril of healing magic to flow through the contact. It helped some with her vision, but the ringing in her ears was relentless.

Wiping her eyes, trying to firm herself, she straightened somewhat, still very grateful for Alistair’s continued hold on her. “Michael,” her throat burned, her voice was hoarse. The sergeant flinched at the sound. “Thank you for watching over the situation,” she raised her eyes, now red, to him. “I know how important the people here are to you, and I appreciate that you continue to do your duty, regardless of those who wield the power in this city.”

Michael frowned. “I wish I could do more, Elfling,” he smirked, using the nickname he had given her so very long ago. He was rewarded by the small smile Adela gave him.

“It would not do for you to get into trouble, Michael,” she continued. “Just keep watch. And keep yourself safe.”

He smiled. “I will.” He promised, and then, with a bow, turned and left the group.

The small group stood in a huddle, waiting at their center - the elf - was able to get a grip on her emotions and body once again. Her head was still bowed, and Alistair kept his arm around her, concerned to release her. Her voice trembling, her bottom lip wavering, Adela indicated that they should continue their search for Brother Genetivi so that they could leave the city and get back to camp. Where I can just hide away, she thought as they turned.

Niall asked a nearby shopkeep where the Brother’s home was, and they were pleased that it was not far from their current position. With a sharp nod, the elf quietly turned to the home, followed equally quietly by her companions.

DA:O

As expected, Brother Genetivi was not present at his home. His assistant, Weylon, seemed ignorant of his whereabouts save that the last he had heard was that the good Brother had gone to Lake Calenhad, to the inn there. Wearily, Adela thanked the young man, and the group left the home and Denerim and returned to camp.

DA:O

The camp had been set up by the Sten and Zevran upon their return. Leliana had volunteered to hunt, and surprisingly Morrigan, in wolf’s form, went with her. Alistair felt it prudent to divest the elven assassin of his weapons while in camp and Adela, too tired and heart worn to argue, nodded a halfhearted agreement. Believing herself unobserved, the elf turned and walked a ways into the woods, away from the others, seeking out a refuge to vent her sorrow in.

The camp site was near a small pond, its pine nettle strewn banking offering comfort. Choking back a sob, the elf lowered herself down, bringing her knees under her chin. She wrapped her arms around her knees, bent down her head, and sobbed uncontrollably into the hollow of her arms, her tears hot as they fell, burning coldly upon the flesh of her arms.

She did not hear Roland’s approach, and only barely registered as he knelt beside her, wrapping his strong arms about her. Gulping air, she raised her head, barely noticing that he had removed his armor and knelt beside her clad in trousers and a linen shirt, a heavy cloak about his shoulders. The knight pulled her against him, wrapping the cloak about her slight body, and she clutched at the fabric of his tunic, crying out her sorrow. His arms tightened about her and he bowed his head, his lips resting upon the crown of her blond head as she sobbed out her strength.

He continued stroking her hair, making soft shushing sounds and gently rocking her. She choked slightly, whispering how it was all her fault, how she should have just submitted and not fought against him. The knight frowned; he was not aware of what had happened to Adela prior to her becoming a grey warden, but he did not like the sound of what she was saying. When he tried to get her to talk about it, she vehemently shook her head, refusing to answer. He nodded.

“Its okay, Adela,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, a hand running gently over her jaw and up to brush tears aside. “It is not your fault.” She shook her head again, lifting her tear stained face.

“Yes it is, Roland,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, broken, tears rushing down her cheeks in rivulets. “All I had to do was remember that I was an elf in a human city, and everything would be fine now. But, I didn’t,” she balled a tiny fist, punching down on her thigh. “I let my friendships and status overrule the one fact that regardless of who I know, what I can do, and who I actually am, I will always be an elf!” she spat that last as though a curse.

Placing his hands firmly on her shoulders, Roland gave her a gentle shake. “Never am I to hear you say such things again, Adela,” he scolded, firmly yet with gentle undertones. “You are more than just an elf,” he pulled her to him, resting his head on her head. His hands now brushed down her back. “No one is just what their race is. And you have proven to be more than most nobles prove to be.”

She scoffed at that, whimpering slightly, but her sobs had subsided. “And yet my people still suffer and there is nothing I can do about it!”

Sighing, he pulled her back, gazing intently into her eyes. “Perhaps not at this time,” he agreed sadly, “but we will find the chance to make things right.” He bent down, kissing her lightly on her trembling lips. Pulling back just slightly, his green eyes full of the affection he felt for her, he said, “This I swear to you, Adela Tabris. We will find a way to make it right.”

Blinking rapidly, clearing the tears from her eyes, Adela bit her lower lip. Unable to find her voice again, she merely nodded. Roland smiled at her and bent down again to kiss her gently. He felt her tremble somewhat in his arms, and he moved to pull away, but stopped as he felt her lips respond to his own. Smiling, he tightened his embrace, pulling her closer, kissing her with more passion than his first. He felt her tiny hands on his chest push against him, and, with a nod, pulled back.

Pressing his forehead to hers, he said, “I apologize for being so forward, Adela.”

She nodded against his forehead, still whispering. “It’s alright, Roland,” she lifted her eyes. “I…I just am not…”

“It’s okay,” he said, placing a finger to her lips. He had been too forward in kissing her, and he did not feel it right for her to have to explain why she broke it off. “I want you to know, however, that I care very much for you,” her eyes widened slightly at that, blinking rapidly. “And that I would never do anything to hurt you. I will only go as far as you wish me to.” He smiled. “And it is my hope that perhaps you will allow me to court you properly.”

Befuddled, she stammered, her face, once so pale with her concern, now flushed pink. “I…I am unsure what to say here, Roland,” she frowned.

Smiling, he rose, extending his hand to her, and helping her from the ground. “Then say nothing, Adela.” He prompted, brushing a tender hand along her smooth cheek. “We are just getting to know one another. I just wanted to make my feelings known to you.”

Still biting her lip, she nodded. “Thank you, Roland,” she raised her eyes, smiling up at him. “I am flattered.”

Chuckling, Roland extended his arm to her, smiling as she placed a small hand in the crook of his arm. “That’s more than I had expected.” He paused, staring down into her face. “And I mean it. We will find the means to help your people.”

Blushing deeply, Adela bowed her head with a nod. “We have a Blight to stop first,” she replied, her voice stronger, more resolute than before. Roland smiled at that.

Together, the pair returned to the camp, where Adela retired for the evening.

DA:O

Alistair was concerned about Adela. She had disappeared almost as soon as they had returned to camp. He did not like her habit of going off into the surrounding area. He knew that normally she looked for wood or rock or items so that she could continue her work, yet it still bothered him that as thoughtful as she was in almost everything else, she had this one habit he considered rather thoughtless.

So, he left the camp, heading toward the pond, hoping to find her there.

What he found was not what he had hoped to.

He first spotted Roland, kneeling upon the ground, holding something in his arms. As he neared, he noticed that it was Adela he embraced. No, not just embraced, but was holding tenderly in his arms, kissing her. He watched as a small hand snaked up to rest upon Roland’s shoulder, and it seemed to the young Warden that the elf was returning the knight’s kiss. His teeth clenched and he shut his eyes against the sight. Turning abruptly, the young man hurriedly returned to camp, seeking out the solace of his tent.

DA:O

He was there, hiding in the darkness, only his eyes gleaming from the shadows. She swept by him, a small dagger in her hand, her dress covered in blood, blood in her hair, blood running down her thighs…

She gasped at a sound. Spinning, she froze, scared as a tiny woodland creature caught by the eyes of a great predator. And she was. He stepped from the shadows, blood pouring form the wound in his chest, blood encrusted along the front of his open trousers.

“So, my dearest,” he purred, reaching for her, his green eyes gleaming, “we shall be together always.”

She screamed, jabbing out with her small blade, which shrunk in size as it neared the man. A pin, it stuck into his arm. His eyes upon the tiny needle, a slow, sly smirk crossed his handsome features. “Ah, a bee with a stinger,” he crooned, his hands closing over her shoulders, pulling her towards him. “No, my dearest. You need to start acting like the elven wench you are,” his arms were iron as they embraced her, pulling her body against his. “Not some pointy eared human woman.”

She felt a jab to her shoulder, warm blood flowing from the wound. His lips covered hers, and she screamed against him, pushing her hands against his body. His body jerked, his eyes widened. She was pulled away from behind as the tip of a long sword stuck out from his chest. A voice…no, two voices, sought to calm her, telling her it was alright.

One voice became stronger, more insistent. Telling her to wake up! With a started gasp, her scream dying in her throat, she jolted upwards, fully awake…

To find Alistair holding her, his eyes opened and wide with concern.

“Alistair?” she gasped, the pain in her shoulder real. A cold suddenly flashed through her and she screamed again. Alistair pulled her closer, watching as her blue eyes rolled up, revealing only the whites. He cried out for Niall as Adela’s jaw clenched with a loud click, her jaw locking itself. Niall and Roland both rushed to the tent, the mage pushing himself in, pulling the elf from the young man’s grip. Dumbfounded, they watched as the elf’s body convulsed, and the mage began casting. It was then that Alistair noticed the blood on his hands.

“Niall,” he barked out, fear giving volume to his voice. “She’s been stabbed.”

Frowning, the mage pulled her over, examining the deep puncture wound in her shoulder. “She’s been poisoned,” he rasped out. Roland spun about, shouting for the Antivan assassin.

Sleepy, his hair mussed, Zevran emerged from the tent that had been acquired for his use. He could not even ask what was wrong when a large, heavy fist connected with his face, dropping the slender elf to the ground.

Looming over the prone elf, Roland ordered the Sten to tie the elf up. Alistair, whom Niall had exiled from the tent, tossed the Qunari a length of rope, fully in agreement.

Leliana had gone to the tent to offer what assistance she could to the mage. Morrigan was pulling her backpack out, searching out various poultices and potions, hurrying along to assist as well.

Zevran allowed the big warrior to tie him up, flinching slightly as the Sten lifted him to a seated position against a rock. Alistair, having seen Adela’s injury, surged toward the helpless male, scowling threateningly at him. Trying to maintain a calm front, Zevran met that glare steadily.

“What did you do to her?” the young Warden demanded, stepping forward. He barely took note of Roland’s presence, so intent upon the elf lying on the ground.

“Her?” Zevran asked, his eyes darting toward Adela’s tent. “My very large and angry friend, I have done nothing to the fair Warden.”

“Really?” Roland stepped forward now, his concern for Adela growing. All he wanted to do right now was hold Adela, but since he could not, a fair second would be to hit the elf before him again.

“I promise this to you all,” Zevran replied calmly, slowly, “I would never harm the other Warden,” he spoke with sincere seriousness, trying to convey the truth of his words. “She spared my life. What poor repayment would trying to take hers be?”

Morrigan passed by the group, frowning at them. “He speaks the truth, you foolish, overly possessive men!” she spat, continuing on her way. “I had placed a glyph upon his tent. Had he tried to leave it at the time of Adela’s attack, the resounding shock wave would have injured him and alerted the rest of the camp.” With those words, the witch bent down and entered the tent to assist in Adela’s treatment.

Both Alistair and Roland glared at the witch’s retreating back. So, if not the elven assassin, who, then tried to kill Adela? They looked at one another, frowning. The smooth accent of Antiva penetrated their minds.

“Ah, and so since the lovely witch has declared me innocent,” he stated, shrugging his shoulders, “Could perhaps one of you kindly untie me?” He fluttered his eyelashes slightly. “Well, that is, unless of course either of you has need for a helplessly tied up handsome elf such as myself?”

Glaring down at the elf, Roland turned away, taking a stance outside of Adela’s tent. Alistair frowned over at the knight, and then bent down to release the Antivan. “Watch him,” the warden ordered of the Sten, and took a seat nearby the elven warden’s tent.

DA:O

“I wish Wynne was here,” Niall muttered as he poured more healing magic into the small elf. “I have little knowledge of poisons.” He admitted this as Morrigan bent over to filter a healing potion through Adela’s clenched teeth.

They had been unable to unclench the elf’s jaws, and it would soon prove a problem. She had been having dry heaves, but if she were to vomit, there would be no way for her to expel the waste. Her body taking the poison back into itself would only serve to harm her further.

Leliana, while no expert on poisons, had offered that the wound obviously was not meant to be fatal, that it seemed a large needle had been used. Had no one been alerted to the attack, had Adela not screamed out from her nightmare, she could very well have drowned in her own vomit. The mage and witch looked at one another, frowning at the thought.

The bard was correct; the wound was not deadly. The amount of blood was due mainly to the length of time the wound had been allowed to bleed, but in no way could have proven fatal. The mage closed his eyes.

“Wouldn’t the assassin have knowledge on poisons?” he asked, glancing at the two women beside him. The bard nodded, and then scampered out of the enclosure to fetch the other elf.

Niall heard Roland briefly argue with Leliana about allowing Zevran to enter the tent. The bard explained that he may have knowledge of poisons that the rest of them didn’t, and that every moment they wasted arguing could further endanger Adela. The knight ceased his arguments, and the elven man and Orlesian bard entered. With a quick look, the bard assessed she was no longer needed, and quickly exited.

The two mages advised the elf of the symptoms. After noticing the pallor of Adela’s skin, he frowned. “It sounds rather like a combination of Concentrated Deathroot and the toxin from an ice spider.” He placed a hand on the other elf’s forehead, noting the clamminess and chill of her skin. “She’s freezing,” he remarked, pulling the blankets up over the girl’s shuddering form. “The Deathroot would be what is paralyzing her, making her jaw clench shut. It is the toxin that is making her ill, stealing the warmth from her. The combination of both would make it difficult to discern cause of death as both would leave the system fairly quickly. The poison itself is not deadly, however, it is the body‘s reaction to it that is.” He was frowning. “All I can suggest is what you have been doing - continue pouring healing magic into her, revitalization as well. I would cease with the potions until she can swallow properly,” this last was directed to Morrigan. “She could well drown on the potions as well as her own vomit.”

“There’s nothing else to be done, then?” Niall asked, staring down at the helpless woman, tucking her blankets tighter about her shivering form.

“No,” Zevran frowned. “She will need someone in here with her to keep her warm,” he smiled, “I offer my services for such.”

Both mages scowled at the assassin. “’Tis not a wise idea,” Morrigan purred, gathering her supplies and setting the pack in a corner for future use. “to allow the assassin to remain herein.” She moved toward the tent’s flap. “I shall fetch Alistair and it shall be he that remains with her. They are the closest of everyone here, and I doubt Adela would be overly embarrassed to have him in here with her.” With those words, the witch left.

Niall turned back to his patient, sending more healing magic into her body. Already her skin color was returning, and he noticed that her muscles were relaxing. Zevran told him that perhaps in another hour or so much of the poison should be bled from her system, and then their main concern would be keeping her warm.

DA:O

Morrigan stepped from the tent, noticing that both Roland and Alistair were standing quite near the tent. Men, she thought, rolling her eyes. Adela would be appalled - if she realized the buffoonery these two were perpetrating now. Still…she needed one of these buffoons. “Alistair,” she turned her eyes toward the other Warden. “Niall will need your assistance within,” she swept a graceful hand toward the tent.

With a nod, the young man went into the tent. Roland frowned. “Why does he need his help?” he asked suspiciously.

A black brow, graceful and slender, arched upwards. Oh what fun, she thought. Jealousy. “’Tis now a matter of keeping her warm,” she explained, taking silent delight in the emotions that crossed the man’s handsome face: confusion, jealousy, anger…”’Twas decided that since she has known Alistair the longest, she would be less inclined to awkwardness should it be him that spends the eve with her.”

With those words, fully aware of their affect upon the knight, the witch swept away to her own camp slightly off from the rest, completely ignoring the glare the knight watched her with.

DA:O

“Wait,” Alistair held up a hand, trying very hard to comprehend what both men had just asked of him. “You want me to lay down with Adela to keep her warm?”

They both nodded, Niall rubbing her hands vigorously between his own. Zevran was warming her feet in the same manner. “Hafter should be in here, too,” Niall added, recalling how big the dog was. “Both of you lay on each side and that should keep her warm enough. She’s unnaturally cold, and if not looked after she could freeze.”

Zevran nodded. “I have offered my services,” he explained, smiling at the human male, “But, alas, Niall and our lovely Witch both thought that the poor girl too shy to allow such intimate contact with someone she’s only just met.” He tutted at the unconscious girl. “So, they decided you as the best option.”

His brows shot up. “Best option?” he repeated, glancing down at Adela’s unconscious form.

Zevran let out a pleasant peel of laughter. “Why, yes, my big handsome man!” His eyes narrowed somewhat. “Do not think to try and fool Zevran! I have seen the looks you give this lovely one,” he tucked her feet under the blankets and then reached put a hand upon Adela’s forehead. “Surely spending the night by her side, offering your…” he sidled closer to the man, “considerable warmth for the eve would be most pleasant, no?”

Alistair flushed at that.

“You sleep on one side, the great war dog on the other. Between the two of you, well, she should be quite warm and contented.” Zevran gave an exaggerated frown. “Such a pity the girl will be unconscious.”

Niall frowned at the elf. “Stop teasing him, Zevran,” he admonished as he sent another tendril of magic through the girl. He was pleased to see that her jaw had finally relaxed. Bending down, he found he could open her mouth. “Good,” he remarked, looking at the other two. “The Deathroot seems to have weakened considerably. Now, Alistair,” he turned his attention to the warden. “I know that it seems…strange to ask you to actually lay beside her, but truly, this is the only way we can think of to keep her warm. The chills that have come over her are poison induced, and the only cure is for it to wear off. However, since we are at the end of autumn, the nights are cold as well.”

“So merely putting a few more blankets on her won’t work?” Alistair asked, quite nervous about what they were proposing.

Niall shook his head. “Not and be able to be secure in the knowledge that they remain. With you and Hafter working as her warmth, you can be certain she does not get too warm or not warm enough.”

“You need someone to watch over her as well,” he stated, nodding; now understanding.

“Yes.”

Nodding his head, the blond warden agreed. He was nervous, and more than a little uncomfortable about it. But, if it would help Adela he would do so. Hafter padded his way into the tent, settling down beside the elven Warden.

Niall and Zevran left the tent, Niall making certain that Alistair was aware of the pack full of healing potions in case Adela needed them.

So, he settled next to the girl, rolling her onto her side and pulling her body flush with his. The massive warhound stretched out longer than the girl was. The warden was dismayed at just how cold her body felt, and pulled the blankets up over the three of them. He wrapped his arms about her slight body, tucking her head under his chin, and pulling her closer. He listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing. He closed his eyes. He admitted to himself that he enjoyed the feel of holding her as she slept, although he did not like the circumstances for it. Pushing aside the image of Roland kissing her, Alistair bent his head and kissed the top of her head, and then brought his lips to an ear and kissed her again. With a sigh, he relaxed, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

　

[SheilaD67]

This is a playful, fluffy chapter.

As always, thank you all for the reviews: mutive, Gaspode, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, mutive. And thanks to everyone who has been alerting and favoriting this as well. You have no idea how much this means! Please review and crit. They’re great fun to read! I’ve just got to 100 reviews! Thank you so much!

DragonAge: Origins: The Halla Reborn
Chapter 23

　
Alistair awoke during the night with a start to find that Adela had moved closer to him, her body conformed closely to his. Her long blond hair curled about her head and face like a golden halo, her pink lips parted just slightly. One slender arm was tucked under her, her tiny hand cupping her chin. Her other arm was draped across her waist. He gasped a bit, realizing that her shapely bottom was pressed very snuggly against…a certain other part of his body and that part was responding quite well to the close contact of the elven woman. He moved himself a bit away from the elf, breathing slowly, thinking of anything other than the lovely woman lying next to him. That had not happened before. His body relaxed after a time and he eased closer to her again.

He was a bit confused by that. His body had never…betrayed him so obviously before.

He thought he could contribute some of that to the elven assassin’s rather suggestive comments, but he didn’t think that was it. He glanced down at her now peaceful face, brushing a hand across her forehead, which was now warm.

It was Roland, he realized. Seeing the Highever knight kissing Adela in a more than friendly manner had caused Alistair to contemplate his own feelings for the elven Warden. He had always been attracted to her; cared deeply for her; even loved her. But, this manner of lying next to her was far more intimate than the time in the hay loft. At that time, they just lay next to each other, talking until they fell asleep, Adela tucked next to him. Here, his purpose was to keep her warm, which meant covering as much of her body with his own. And he had discovered his body - and certain parts thereof - rather liked the close proximity. The feel of her warmth, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, so very close…

No, stop thinking that way. Relax. Think of the Revered Mother during morning sermon.

That worked.

He shook his head. This was getting far too complicated. If she and Roland were developing a relationship he had one of two choices: step aside and let them be; or make his own feelings known and fight for her.

The problem was, off the battlefield, and fighting for something he wanted was not something the young ex-Templar-to-be had any experience in. How did one fight for the woman he loved?

His breath tightened at that thought, and he found himself tugging Adela’s sleeping form closer to him. Okay, so first thing was not to be embarrassed or concerned about close proximity and certain bodily reactions to that. If Roland has a problem with it, Alistair will deal with it.

Secondly, tell Adela how he feels.

Yeah, right. Been there already.

He shook his head. No, he hadn’t. Adela had stumbled upon him in the Fade, his dream family surrounding him, complete with father, brother, mentor, sister, various nieces and nephews. And she had told him that she had not loved him in that manner. But that had been during a time when she was confused about her feelings for someone else (he refused to think of the man in that context). He made self-deprecating jokes, never was truly serious, always playful and ready to just back off. So, he had stepped back, waiting for her. And, in so doing, gave Roland plenty of room to swoop in (see? Swooping is bad!) and try to claim her.

Oh, that’s a bad thought. Claim her like she was some prize. A rather Vaughan thing to think, eh? Adela would smack him if she knew he thought of her in that manner. So, he wouldn’t.

Sighing heavily, the young man reached across and scratched his fingers through Hafter’s thick, rough fur. The warhound snorted contentedly in his sleep, stretching out, but offered nothing by way of advice to the young man. Damn dog just kept sleeping.

What exactly had Roland done to get Adela’s attention? Exactly what Alistair had been doing - teasing her, talking with her, being a friend…okay, perhaps Roland flirted much better than he did, but he had also revealed that he had more experience with the opposite sex. And Adela hadn’t seemed particularly thrilled with that bit of information, no matter how much the knight denied it.

So, what did the knight do? Was it the way he looked at her, all noble-like, honorable, and yet still making it known that he admired her? Or was it simply that he was like the perfect knight, all red haired and green eyes, no facial stubble - ever. Or how he had called her ‘Lady’…

Over thinking things, he admonished himself. He could not be like Roland, could only be Alistair. And Adela liked Alistair. He just needed her to like him more than she liked Roland.

A lot more.

Advice was what he needed. From whom?

Certainly not Zevran. The elf made him exceptionally uneasy, and not just because he had tried to kill Adela and was very new to the group. The way that man watched everyone - men and women - was as though he was trying to picture them without any clothes on. No, the lascivious elf was not one to go to, even if they knew one another better.

Niall was also out. The mage seemed as shy as Alistair himself, despite rumors about mage promiscuity. And, if those rumors were true, it was more than likely his advice would be more off the wall than anything Zevran would say.

Morrigan was a definite no. She would only taunt him and make him feel very stupid. And the Sten would only glare at him for asking.

Wynne was at Redcliffe and, as much as he loved the old gal, he felt she’d more than likely give him some kind of lecture about putting duty first before any personal feelings, wants and desires he may have.

Roland - yeah, go up to the man who was his rival and ask ‘So, Roland, what exactly did you do to get Adela to be alone with you by the waterside and kiss you? Because, you know, I’d like to give it a try.’ He snorted at that thought, and then froze as Adela shifted in his arms, and then turned over, facing Alistair. Her hand retucked under her chin, and her other arm was flung across Alistair‘s waist, her small hand twitching just slightly. He remained still until she settled down and resumed her steady breathing, once again deep in sleep. Of course, he thought with a slight mischievous grin, Roland wasn’t the one laying here now with the woman who claimed his affections, now, was he?

Sure, Alistair was lying with the woman he loved, but as a friend, not a lover. Oh, he really needed help…

Leliana. Sweet, wonderful, completely bonkers Leliana. But, he knew that she would help him. Or give him some advice. Or at least tell him when he did something very stupid. Or even tell him he did not stand a chance against Roland’s knightly nobility and worldliness.

Okay, he decided. He would ask Leliana’s advice. And hope and pray that it was the right advice.

Now his next dilemma was now that Adela seemed to have recovered, should he remain or go back to his own tent? Glancing down at her, he decided to stay. It shouldn’t matter what others thought or said; and he wasn’t going to mind what Roland thought. He had known Adela far longer than any of them, and they had always been comfortable with each other’s presence. Besides, it had been their idea he spend the night here. They didn’t need to know that she was better.

Giving her a quick, chaste kiss on the forehead, Alistair snuggled down further, closed his eyes, and promptly fell back to sleep, Adela’s warm breath teasing across his neck.

DA:O

Damn the elf for starting out of a deep sleep! Had she lain just a bit longer, silent, the poison would have had longer to work before the discovery, and the damned knife-eared wench would be dead!

The shadowy figure raced, swerving between the trees, gaining distance swiftly from the companions’ campsite. No one had thought to leave the campsite to search out the elf’s assailant, but the figure was not taking any chances. Leaping agilely, the slender, elf-like form, cloaked in darkness, made swift progress through the tree limbs, leaping easily from one tree to the next, traveling a great distance above the ground before alighting gracefully once more to the forest floor.

Any tracks left would be difficult to discern through the varied path upon ground, tree, and the brook that crisscrossed the forest floor.

It would be daylight before the figure would pause, seeking shelter and rest.

DA:O

The first thing she noticed was how very warm she was. Dressed in her sleeping tunic, which had somehow gotten twisted up along her legs, covered with more than one blanket, she felt closed in, almost claustrophobic. That was when she noticed that she was walled in on both sides by two very massive, slow breathing masses. She opened her eyes to find herself staring into a strong, muscled neck. Alistair’s neck. Confused, she reached out with a hand behind her, encountering the rough bristle of Hafter’s fur. Okay, she thought, moving her hand back, noticing that her other arm was wrapped about the human Warden’s waist. Confused, she lifted her face.

Alistair was sleeping, although if the facial twitches were anything to go by, she suspected he would awaken fairly soon. Tipping her head back slightly, she watched as his lips twitched slightly, a grimace forming at his brow, creasing it. She never liked it when worry would line his face. As he relaxed, so, too, did the lines, smoothing out, revealing a boyish face. She smiled as she brought a hand up to brush along his cheek, up to his forehead, and back down to his chin. She always liked his face - it was very expressive, extremely handsome, but approachable. Roland’s fine features made him almost too handsome, almost as though his features had been carved from marble so perfect were they. But Alistair’s face, with it‘s sun touched tan, that almost silly scruffy patch (he seemed to like it) under his lower lip, fine smile lines around his mouth and squint marks at his eyes…She liked his face. Handsome, pleasant, friendly.

She frowned to herself for comparing the two men. That was not fair. The previous evening came back and she flushed with embarrassment at the remembrance of Roland kissing her. While it had been a rather nice kiss, it did not stir in her the feelings she thought that being kissed by such a handsome and honorable man would be. Of course, last night - yesterday - had not been the best of times to explore that kind of a relationship anyway.

Sighing, she started to snuggle closer to Alistair, but then stopped herself. She frowned, looking back up into his face. Why was he here? She could not remember anything after retiring last night. Well, anything other than that horrid nightmare. She shivered slightly, moving to snuggle closer to Alistair, who merely stirred a bit, making a slight whining noise in his nose. She grinned at that, using her friend as an anchor - no, a wave to push the nightmare aside. Vaughan can no longer harm her. Not in the physical, nor in her mind. She has already seen so much, done more, braved horrors she had never even heard of before. One little, cruel nobleman would not have his hold upon her any longer.

Not when she is surrounded with friends such as Alistair. Not when she is the Commander of the Grey in Fereldan (of all two of the wardens therein). Not when so much absolutely does depend upon her and these that have chosen to follow her, whatever their reasons. She is calm now, the nightmare merely a reflection of the past. Something that cannot harm her any longer as it was done and she has faced it, and in many ways is stronger for it.

She purposefully ignored the wrenching feeling in her stomach.

She did not allow her mind to wander to Shianni’s broken and bruised form. Or Nelaros’ still, bloodied body.

There had been prices to pay, horrible, terrible prices. Prices she would rather not have had paid. Prices she felt would also have been too high.

But, even so, if not for that unhappy episode, she would not be here now. And, as much as the thought surprises her, where she is now - wrapped in her dearest friend’s arms, surrounded by people who in one way or another actually believe in her and their cause - is where she actually wants to be. Well, that and with a chunk of wood or ceramic in hand, a pottery wheel or easel nearby.

Hafter stretches next to her, pushing her further against Alistair’s strong chest with an arch of his back. The dog whines slightly, then blinks open his soft brown eyes. Whimpering, he rises, then noses the tent flap open, letting in a bright sliver of sunshine. With a happy grunt to his mistress, the warhound leaves the tent for his morning ablutions.

Her back is cooler without the furnace of her dog there. But Alistair, a furnace all unto himself, keeps her warm still. But, it is morning, and she still does not know why he and Hafter (who usually prefers sleeping outside her tent) were both in here with her.

“Alistair?” She whispers, pulling back, nudging his chest slightly. He grunts a bit in his sleep. She grins, pushing just a bit harder.

He starts to whine, “Ahhh…ten more minutes,” he sleepily begs. “Have someone else take morning duty for Morning Prayers.”

Not even bothering to stifle a giggle, the elven woman placed both hands on his chest and gave him a good shake. Startled, he gasped, his eyes flying open, both hands reaching down to firmly grip Adela’s hands, stilling her.

“Alistair,” she said in a slightly louder voice, pulling on her arms. The human looked down first into Adela’s face, and then at her captured hands. Grinning sheepishly, he eased his grip, but still held her hands in his.

“Adela,” he breathed, seemingly relieved. He was having the strangest dreams about standing guard during the revered mother’s morning sermons - all while in his small clothes. “How are you feeling?” His eyes looked upon her with concern.

She frowned, “Feeling?” She asked, “I feel fine. Why?”

His brows shot up. “Don’t you remember?” he asked, his voice filled with concern but tinged with relief. “You were…attacked last night. And poisoned. We almost lost you.”

She blinked, pulling her hands free and pushing herself into a seated position. She felt fine. “I don’t remember,” she admitted, “and I feel fine,” she repeated as Alistair rose into a seated position beside her. “So, is that why both you and Hafter were here?”

Her friend nodded. “The poison used had dropped your body temperature severely. Niall suggested that Hafter and I…ah, sleep next to you to help keep you warm.” He glanced down at her, realizing for the first time that all she wore was her sleeping tunic which, while usually covered her to her knees when she stood, was now pushed up to her thighs. He blushed slightly, and pulled the blanket to cover her legs. She watched the movement, trying to digest what Alistair had told her.

How could she have no memory of that? “So, I was attacked and poisoned,” she repeated. “What happened to my assailant?”

Alistair shook his head, rubbing his hand over his hair. “Got away. We would never have known you were attacked had you not screamed out.” He frowned. “But you don’t recall the attack?”

“No,” she said firmly, “I had a nightmare, and I recall crying out from that. And, I vaguely recall your coming in here, calling my name,” she shrugged. “After that, nothing.”

Alistair reached over and placed a hand on her forehead. She felt as warm as she ever did. Her eyes were bright and clear, her speech focused and sure. Although he had very limited knowledge of poisons, he had expected her to be quite ill this morning. That she wasn’t surprised him.

“Alistair,” she called to him, watching his face closely. “I can tell you that I am exceedingly starved and would love some breakfast.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, grinning.

Sighing, he nodded. “Me too, actually.” He pushed himself up and toward the tent flap. “We’ll need to have a closer watch at night from now on,” he replied as he paused at the exit, watching his friend. “How someone could get into your tent, without your noticing, stab you, and then get away without any of us noticing is really very worrying.”

Nodding her agreement, she reached over to her pack for a fresh tunic and breeches. “I agree,” she frowned as she paused, “I don’t like the idea of someone out there who can get past you, the Sten and Leliana.”

Her eyes rose to meet his. She saw the same concern there as well. With a nod, Alistair left her tent, leaving her to dress.

DA:O

Everyone was surprised when Adela emerged from her tent, freshly dressed, her hair loose and hanging tangle free about her shoulders, and eyes shining. Zevran gave Alistair a suggestive grin, which the tall Warden ignored magnificently. Niall immediately went over to her and, after several minutes spent sending healing magic into her, declared the poison gone and the elven Warden fit. He did pause several times as his magic detected the taint that flowed through all Grey Wardens‘ blood, but it was an anomaly he had detected before and so bypassed it.

Zevran was perhaps the most surprised, advising that the combination of toxins used in the poison should have kept her down for at least a day after the Deathroot had cleared from her system. The two Wardens exchanged looks. Adela’s wondered if the joining had anything to do with her quick recovery; Alistair’s face mirrored the same question.

Roland, who had been by the water cleaning up, spotted Adela and rushed to her, scooping her up and hugging her tightly, kissing her lightly as he did so. Surprised, Adela allowed the hug and kiss before pushing away, declaring that she was fine, starved and wanting a bath. Grinning down at her, the knight released her, sitting next to her as she settled down to spoon out some of the porridge Morrigan had prepared. The elf looked over at Alistair, and patted the seat beside her on the log. Smiling, he picked up a bowl, scooped out some food, and planted himself next to her, happily ignoring the look the redhead knight was giving him.

As they ate, Adela thanked Zevran for his assistance, to which the elven assassin merely bowed, hand to chest, stating it had been his privilege. No one mentioned to her that Roland had attacked the elf.

The group had all settled around the fire, eating, and discussing the change in guard duty at night. Instead of one on duty, there now would be two, and the two needed to patrol the perimeter every fifteen minutes and shifts would be three hours instead of four. The Sten approved resoundingly (well for him) with a firm nod and “Agreed!”.

The new routine settled, the companions rose to break down camp and head to Lake Calenhad. Roland had insisted upon breaking Adela’s tent down, but she refused, saying that she was fine and he had his own things to take care of. The knight frowned at her decision, but did not argue with her about it, turning to take down his own tent.

DA:O

The journey back to Lake Calenhad proved uneventful, much to the delight of Adela. They had begun their new watch rotation and she thought that it would work well. The elven Warden did not believe that the loss of one hour of sleep should not be a detriment to the companions.

As they approached the lake, the Sten moved closer to Adela. Pointing to where an older man was bent on knees, he spoke. “That is where my brethren and I encountered the darkspawn.”

Adela followed his arm and nodded. Gesturing for the others to wait, she led the Sten to the area, to where the man seemed to be digging at the blackened earth.

“You do realize,” the elf said as she neared the man, “that the earth here has been tainted,” he looked up at her. “The land should be burned, not toiled with bare hand.”

Blanching, the man scrambled to his feet, hastily wiping his hands upon his stained and patched tunic. “Oh! Ah…I didn’t know,” he stammered, the look of fear coming over him. “I, ah, should probably mention that to someone.”

Nodding, Adela continued. “You wouldn’t have happened to come across a rather large sword?” The man blinked owlishly to her and then back stepped when he turned his eyes upon the white haired, purple eyed giant beside her. A growl escaped the Sten’s throat. “Goodman?” she said, reaching over to grasp his arm.

Shaking his head, “No, no…I ain’t found nothing but bones and black dirt,” he spat out. With a heavy sigh, he said, “I know, don’t say it. I’ve been tooked.”

“Tooked?” Adela repeated, frowning.

“Yeah, man sold me the looting rights, but didn’t mention he had taken everything but the bones.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “His name’s Faryn, and he’s heading to Orzammar, if you’re curious.” He grinned. “Wish I could see his face when he gets a gander at you,” he pointed to the Sten.

“Orzammar?” Adela asked, making certain she heard correctly.

The man nodded, “Yup. They’s got some outdoor market there, and Faryn has a stall.” He shrugged, turning and seeming to forget about the pair, and Adela’s warning, as he went back to digging into the tainted soil. Frowning, Adela turned and left, the Sten close behind her.

“When we head to Orzammar,” the elf was telling the Qunari as they approached the others, “we will seek this Faryn out and get your sword.”

“Thank you, Warden,” the large man replied with a nod. The elf was certain she noticed a hint of gratitude in his tone.

The innkeeper at the Spoiled Princess proved less helpful than the scavenger. He had first declared that Brother Genetivi had never visited his establishment. He seemed nervous and trying hard to get Adela and the others to leave. Zevran, standing nearby, smiled warmly at the man, suggesting that perhaps he knew of the good Brother, but his memory was failing. The man’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned back to the elven Warden.

“There are some here,” he whispered in low tones, “that have told me to deny knowledge of this Brother or the knights that have come looking for him.”

Adela’s brow twitched at that. No one had mentioned the knights. “So he has been here?’ she asked, keeping her own tone low while Zevran turned around nonchalantly, a cup of ale in hand, his tawny eyes scanning about the place.

“No,” the innkeep said, “but the knights have. I don’t know what’s going on, but these others have threatened me and mine if I let on to anything.” His fear was real, and he nervously gestured to the front door.

Placing a sovereign on the counter, Adela thanked him, telling him that she would ensure that his family was no longer threatened. With a jerk of her head, the elf led the others from the inn.

As they began to ascend the slope leading away from the lake, the group was attacked by several well armed and armored men. These were not simple bandits, and Adela had the impression that these were the very ones the innkeeper had mentioned. Although very skilled and well armed, the attackers fell easily. Searching the bodies (Zevran and Leliana looted what they could - much of the armor and weaponry had been damaged during their fight), Adela found a note hidden within the breastplate of one of the assailants. The paper was marked with a dragon, and a few words written in a hasty hand described Adela. Frowning, Adela told the group they would have to return to Denerim and pay Weylon a visit.

During the first day heading backwards, they ran into bandits and darkspawn. But, the bands were small and easily dispatched. Zevran chuckled, asking Adela if this was the norm for their group. Smiling, she nodded as she watched Niall tend a small wound on the elven assassin’s arm, noticing the mage stayed a bit longer at the elven man’s side. With a hearty laugh, Zevran declared that he was very much going to enjoy traveling with them.

DA:O

Their first night camping on their return journey to Denerim found Alistair on watch with Leliana. Of course, the Warden had arranged things so that he would be on watch, having swapped the first shift with the Sten. Of course, in doing so meant that Adela would be taking the Sten’s watch with Roland. He wished he had thought of that beforehand.

For a time, the pair chatted lightly as they circled the camp’s perimeter. Morrigan and Niall had also set up glyphs around the camp, set to stun, paralyze or knock down any intruders.

“So, Leliana,” Alistair started, trying to make his voice sound as nonchalant as possible. “You’re a woman, right?”

The red head stopped, a small twitch of her lips fighting to smile. A slender, red eyebrow rose in amusement. “Gosh, Alistair,” she said, her voice soft, her accent pleasant. “I don’t know.” She looked down at herself, gasping in feigned astonishment. “My goodness! Alistair! You are right! I am a woman.” She looked up, her blue eyes merry.

Rolling his amber eyes, the young man flushed slightly. “Oh, right, sorry.”

The bard giggled at him, taking his arm and continuing their circuit around the camp. “Now, my friend, that we have established I am, indeed, a woman, what can I do for you?”

Taking a deep breath, he started over. “Okay, what if someone liked you, a great deal,” he looked over at her, embarrassment clear on his face. “How would you like him to show you?”

“Ah, so you would assume only a man would want my attentions?” she teased, clearly enjoying his discomfort and not willing to let him off the hook so easily.

Groaning, he rubbed a hand across his face. “Please, Leliana,” he pleaded, “I need some advice and I don’t even know how to ask for it.”

Taking pity, the young Orlesian suppressed her growing desire to continue teasing the poor man. “Alright, Alistair. First bit of advice,” she paused, turning him to face her. “Never, ever ask a woman if she is a woman,” she ticked a finger at him. “May well do irreparable damage to her ego.”

Nodding, taking her sage advice, he replied. “Right. Got it. No questioning a woman about her femininity.”

Smiling at him, she pulled him by the arm and they resumed their patrol. “Now, what, exactly do you need?”

He shrugged. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “I just wanted some advice. What should I do if... if I think a woman is special and…”

Smiling at her bashful friend, the bard asked, “Why do you ask? Are you afraid things will not proceed naturally?”

Laughing, shaking his head, the warden replied, “Why would they? Especially when I do things like ask beautiful women if they're female.”

Leliana paused, tilting her head to watch Alistair closely. She smiled, her eyes shining. “It adds to your charm, Alistair. You are a little awkward. It is endearing.”

Sighing heavily, rubbing his hand over his hair, frowning a bit. “So I should be awkward?” He cocked his head at her, a confused look in his eyes. “But didn't you just say not to do things like that?”

Giggling, she shook her red head, “Just be yourself, Alistair. You do know how to do that, don't you?” She grinned. “I’ve always thought you did quite well at it.”

Slumping slightly, defeated, he replied, “All right, forget I asked.”

But Leliana would not abandon him in such a manner. “No, no, my dear friend,” she said, tucking her hand under his arm, walking beside him amiably. “That is not what I meant.” She looked up into his face. “This is about Adela, is it not?”

“Who else?”

Her smile widened. Leliana had hoped that Alistair would work up the courage to pursue the pretty little elf. As much as she liked Roland, she felt he was not quite right for her friend. She could see easily how well the two Wardens got along, and Alistair’s affections for the small woman were obvious to all with eyes. Except to the woman in question herself.

“Alistair,” Leliana tugged him to a halt, her eyes slightly serious. “Adela already likes you, a great deal,” she smiled. “That is usually the toughest obstacle to overcome. And I tell you to be yourself because she does already like you, but also because our elven friend values honesty greatly. If you try to be like someone else,” her eyes wandered toward Roland’s tent, “you will only succeed in driving away.” She shrugged, resuming their pace once more. “Your biggest problem really isn’t so much trying to impress Adela, it’s just making your own intentions to her known.” She shrugged. “And for that, you just need to let go a bit of your inhibitions and just let how you feel come out.”

“Huh,” the warden replied with a quick shrug of his shoulders. “I had figured that part out already. I just don’t know how to go about it.”

“Relax,” she said in a soothing voice. “You sometimes are so concerned about what you say that you get all tense and clam up. And, while that is cute and endearing, it does little by way of getting your thoughts across.”

“So, let me get this straight,” he replied, “Be myself - I can do that, I hope.” he grinned. “And just tell her what I feel.”

“Well,” Leliana grinned. “I wouldn’t come right out and tell her your love her, please marry me,” she giggled at Alistair’s crestfallen features. “You need to court her, Alistair. But do so by simply being yourself. If you feel like flirting with her, do it, no matter who is around or how silly you think you’d feel about it. Trust me,” she reached over and patted his cheek. “the rewards are far greater than any teasing you will receive from the rest of us.”

She laughed at the panicked look he gave her. “Oh, come now, Alistair,” she chided. “You know you will be teased, and mercilessly, too. You just need to decide if she’s worth it.”

“You’re going to tease me, too?” he asked in a little boy’s voice, a slight pout crossing his face.

“Oh, Alistair,” she giggled, “you have the pouting face down quite nicely.” She mimicked his expression. “And, oui, of course I’m going to tease you,” she declared with a flounce in her step. “What sort of friend would I be if I did not?”

Sighing, the Warden continued his circuit of the perimeter, frowning at his friend as she merrily went on ahead.

DA:O

When their shift ended, Leliana and Alistair awoke Adela and Roland for theirs. Although it meant that Roland would be sharing three entire hours, alone, with Adela, Alistair felt that his conversation with Leliana had been a good one. He even bent down to give Adela a quick kiss on her cheek, even smiling at Roland as he straightened, before retiring for the night.

Roland and Adela began their circuit of the camp, passing the starting point within the fifteen minute time frame they had earlier established. They did not speak much during the first two hours of their shift, concentrating mostly upon the surrounding area.

When the end of their second hour came and they passed within reach of Roland’s tent, the knight excused himself for a moment and went to his tent. With a shrug, the elf continued her circuit, watching the surrounding woods. It was quiet, and she was glad for that.

A soft rustling sound behind her told her that Roland had exited her tent, and she turned to watch him approach her. He held something in his hands, and as he approached, she noted it was a rather large pouch.

A pleasant smile upon his fine features, the knight handed the pouch over to the elf. “I picked these up while we were in Denerim the first time through,” he explained, watching as her slender hands reached out and took the pouch. “I had been waiting for a chance to give it to you. Now seemed as good a time as any.”

Her blue eyes glanced up, meeting his green, a lovely smile upon her face. “You didn’t have to do this, Roland,” she said in a quiet voice as she worried the strings apart, and pulled open the mouth of the pouch. Taking a step closer, Roland watched as her eyes widened upon seeing the contents of the pouch.

“Roland,” she breathed, pulling forth from the sack a large piece of ivory, of perfect carving quality, perfectly white. She turned the exquisite piece over, her experienced hands searching for any surface defects, her eyes taking in the perfect white of the piece.

“There are smaller pieces in there,” the knight explained, smiling broadly at the delight upon Adela’s face. “And I managed to find a piece of ironbark,” he grinned as her face darted up at that. Ironbark?

“I’ve never worked Ironbark,” she breathed as she dug a hand back into the pouch to search out the wood. She pulled out a dark blue piece, smoother than any other wood she had ever worked. The surface fairly shimmered. “I…I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, gazing at the treasures she had just been handed.

Taking another step nearer, Roland gazed down at her. “Just make something lovely,” he remarked, smiling. “And if you felt like creating a masterpiece for me, well,” he shrugged, “I certainly would not turn it away.” He reached over and put a hand to her cheek, tracing the contours of her face with a thumb. “It is something you enjoy doing, and with all that we are facing now, every moment of joy should be taken.”

Acting on impulse, the elf rose to her tip toes, and placed her hands upon his broad shoulders, setting her soft lips upon Roland’s. Taking the cue, the knight wrapped his arms around the slender elf, and gently returned the kiss. Smiling, pushing away, Adela placed her treasures back into the pouch, smiling back up at the knight. Roland took her hand and the pair resumed their watch.

DA:O

Four days after they left Denerim found the group back at the doorstep of Brother Genetivi. Adela had the Sten, Niall, Zevran and Leliana waiting outside, ordering the two rogues to circle around the house, noting any other exits to the house. Adela, with Alistair, Roland, Morrigan and Hafter would enter via the front door and confront Weylon. Each nodded to the elven Warden, confirming her orders, and the five entered the house without knocking.

Weylon was walking toward the door. His expression was first one of curiosity, then quick anger. Once his eyes settled upon the intruders, it became one of mild curiosity tinged with concern.

“You return?” he asked, just the right amount of concern in his voice. Adela could hear the insincerity behind it.

“Surprised?” she asked, taking a step forward, her hands on her daggers. She allowed her anger to show, and her body language screamed it. “Now,” She took a step forward, “why don‘t you tell us what is going on and where Brother Genetivi can be found.”

Weylon’s face changed from that of a mousy scrivener to a fierce mage. Shouting out, “All shall be forgiven!” he cast a blasting spell at the elven warden, smirking as she stumbled back, gasping in pain.

Roland struck out with his sword as Alistair gathered his will and drained Weylon of his mana. Cursing, the mage stumbled back, his magic taken from him, weakening him severely. He stumbled away from Roland’s sword, but Morrigan’s blast of ice caught him in a wintry grasp, freezing him to the spot. Alistair lunged forward, his sword leading the way, piercing flesh, cutting through bone, slicing into the heart behind rib cage.

Adela regained her balance as Weylon slumped to the floor, dead.

Frowning at the body, Adela suggested that they search the house, looking for any clues as to where the missing Brother could be found.

Roland and Morrigan search the kitchen and dining areas as Alistair and Adela search the back of the house. A sympathetic hum rose in the elf’s throat as she spied the decomposing body of a young man.

“That must be the real Weylon,” she commented as she pulled a blanket from a nearby bed and covered the young man.

Alistair nods sadly, reciting from the Chant:

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade;
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light.
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Smiling, Adela placed a hand upon Alistair’s arm and gave him a gentle nod. Returning the nod, the former Templar-in-training returned to searching for clues of the Brother’s whereabouts.

Adela had to pick the lock on a nearby trunk. Frowning, she started pulling out various clothing, sundries and other personal items. Alistair was busy rummaging through a nearby chest of drawers. As the elf continued, she rose to her feet, having to bend far into the trunk. The young man looked over and paused. The angle the elf presented was a very nice view of her derrière, and Alistair found himself blushing profusely as he realized he was staring. He quickly averted his eyes, ducking his head down, hoping the heat that flushed his face would dissipate before his fellow Warden noticed.

“Ah ha!” Adela cried out as she reached with both hands and, straightening, pulled a heavy volume from the trunk. Turning away from the trunk, she opened the leather bound cover and began thumbing through the neatly scribed pages. Alistair, his face feeling cooler, moved to her side, slumping slightly from his greater height to watch as her long fingers glided across the pages, searching. Then, she tapped lightly on a page, showing her friend what she found. He frowned, looking into her face.

“Haven?” He had never heard of it.

The elf nodded, flipping through the pages again, finding a hand drawn map further back of the journal. “We need to head eastward, or more southeastward,” she patted where they were now tracing a path to the mysterious village. “It’s going to take us at least a week, maybe two make that trip,” she groused, frowning. “If the weather holds.”

Her eyes skimmed along the map, resting on the icon of a tree, depicting the Brecilian Forest. Biting her bottom lip, she looked up into Alistair’s face. “We will make our path to the village,” she said, “But, also keep an eye and ear open for word on any of the Dalish clans in the Forest,” she tapped a long finger at the tree icon. “Maybe then we can get another treaty recognized as we go along, and save time.”

Alistair chuckled a little at that. “Ah, remember last time we thought we were going to ‘save time’?” He nudged her lightly with his shoulder, she pushed right back.

“Yes, yes, I seem to recall that not working out as brilliantly as I had planned,” she smiled up into his face, fluttering her long eyelashes. “But, what are the chances of something like that happening again?”

Laughing at her, the warden shook his head. “Do you mean with our running luck?” He asked playfully, giving one of her braids a gentle tug.

Batting his hands away, the Warden Commander assumed a scowl, but it didn’t last long (especially with Alistair laughing at her). “Yes, well, we’ll plan for trouble, and when it doesn’t happen,” she placed a small hand on his chest, looking up at his under her lashes. “You get to buy me something pretty.”

Taking her hand under his, Alistair decided to follow his own advice, and Leliana’s, and asked, with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “And what do I get if I win?”

Her lips parted in a small gasp. Feeling a faint blush crawl to her cheeks, she stepped back a bit, stammering for a reply.

Grinning, thinking that perhaps he could learn to flirt by practicing more, he recaptured her hand. Taking a deep breath, he plunged right in. “A kiss.”

Blinking, the flush deepening, she replied, “A kiss?”

Nodding, he released her hand, taking the journal from her other and tucking it into his pack. “Yes, that’s my wager.” His smile turned a bit more suggestive. “A real kiss. Full on the lips.” He took a step closer, still smiling down at her. “At a time of my choosing.”

Swallowing thickly, the elf bit her lip, but then raised her eyes and boldly met his, even though her cheeks were flaming now. “It’s a wager.” She waved a hand blasé, saying, “I’ll have to decide what pretty thing you’ll have to buy for me.” She turned, looking back at him over her shoulder. “And it will be expensive.”

Alistair just grinned, feeling rather pleased with himself. Chances are things would go smoothly, but he had taken that first plunge, and actually flirted with Adela. It made him feel a bit…warm.

And, although he wasn’t one for looking for trouble, he found that he’d like just a small bit of it - perhaps a very small band of bandits in the Brecilian Forest, perhaps harassing a small hunting band of elves - if for the chance of a real kiss from Adela’s lips.

With a raised brow, the elf glanced back at the other warden, and then led him from the room to join up with the others.
 

[SheilaD67]

I apologize for this chapter taking so long to post. It’s been an awful chapter; my muse ran away on one of those darned Hallas and I couldn’t get her back to inspire me properly. I’m not really happy with this chapter, but it’s a necessary evil, I fear.

And, as always, thank you all for the reviews: mutive, Biff McLaughlin, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, nithu. And thanks to everyone who has been alerting and favoriting this as well. You have no idea how much this means! Please review and crit. They’re great fun to read!

Oh! And I got another favorite author alert! Those make me smile as much as a review does!

DragonAge: Origins: The Halla Reborn
Chapter 24

　
She found herself stumbling along in the dark. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, and the heavy foliage and tree overhang made the darkness deeper. She scowled, turning about, trying to find her path again. How could she have been so stupid to have gotten lost of all things? Her father would be so ashamed of her lack of foresight. Sighing, she felt that her father would be ashamed regardless.

She forced herself to stop. Standing still, her hands on her full hips, she bent her head, catching her breath. There was a camp nearby, one she had scouted out earlier. Her head lifted. There, to the east, the sound of rushing water. Yes, the site had been near a rushing brook. Confident she was at least in the right area, the young woman turned about and, making her way through the darkness, sought out her campsite.

DA:O

The blood mage gazed down at his lover, watching as her chest rose and fell with her gentle breaths. He allowed a moment of tenderness to overtake him as he reached a strong hand to cup her cheek. Tracing his hand down, he followed the strong lines to her shoulders, and lower, tracing the side of her small breast to slim waist and muscled hip. While no beauty, this warrior woman contained what the mage most desired in a person: strength, conviction, a willingness to fight for what she believed, the passion to see it through to the end, and the courage to not walk away. He bent down to kiss her lightly upon her thin lips, adjusting his body to pull her naked form closer to his. She murmured in her sleep, twisting a bit as his hands settled at her stomach, splaying across the lightly muscled abdomen, holding her possessively against his own strong chest.

Arawn’s thoughts went over the course of the past few weeks. Howe was still concerned about the Cousland girl’s continued absence. But the blood mage did not seem to think it was a matter of great urgency. Loghain had become exceptionally pliant, and the mage did worry about that. The Teyrn was no fool, and was extremely strong in will. Between the poison, blood vials and Arawn’s own exceptionally strong magic they had managed to keep the man under firm control. The few times he had broken free, a mere threat to Anora’s continued health was enough to get him back under reins.

The fools of the Bannorn continued to press the realm for their freedoms and sovereign rights. Rights? They would bow before the throne or loose everything. Already, many of the Banns had either fallen or accepted their losses and bowed knee to Loghain. And, in so doing, bowed knee to him.

The reports of increasing darkspawn sightings had the mage concerned. He knew that the Grey Wardens proclaimed only they were fit to fight against a Blight. However, darkspawn fell as easily to his men’s blades as they did any others. It was all propaganda, to his mind, and he again thought Maric a fool for having so completely trusted the Wardens. There was no evidence that the Wardens were needed, and there was no evidence this was a Blight.

So convinced, Arawn continued to pull resources in, setting up the power base of the Throne, bringing unlawful Banns and other lords into line, crushing those who opposed.

A smile crossed his handsome face, and he bent down to kiss his love again, before lowering his head to sleep.

DA:O

They entered the Brecilian Forest nearly a week out of Denerim, heading southeasterly. They had stopped at a small village, seeking to resupply, when word had arrived that there were Dalish clans traveling through the forest. Apparently, with this news, the villagers ordered no one to enter the deeper parts of the forest until word arrived the wild elves had left.

Smiling, Adela spoke to the local merchant for direction as to where the clan normally camped. With a frown, and three silvers richer, the man indicated a portion of the Forest, tapping the girl’s map with a chubby finger. “That part right there,” he said, “is believed to be haunted. Take care of yerself, girlie,” he said kindly, looking her over and then the others. “Them wild elves aren’t like you city bred ones. They’ll shoot you full o’ arrows as they would any other.”

Thanking him for his time and the warning, feeling better armed with the knowledge her mother had imparted to her during her childhood, Adela led her merry band away from the village and to the Forest.

DA:O

"People have always spoken of dark and mysterious woods, haunted by unseen beings.” Leliana spoke as they passed through the thick foliage and dense vegetation of the Brecilian Forest, her voice low, a mysterious quality to her sing-song voice, “The Brecilian Forest is one such forest.” The bard smiled at the others as she continued, “They say the Veil is thin here and spirits from the Fade pass over, drifting through the trees and giving them an unnatural and sinister intelligence. It is said that if you feel you are being watched in the Brecilian Forest, you are."

Adela smiled over at the Orlesian, grinning as Alistair stared into the surrounding trees suspiciously and Niall moved just slightly closer to Zevran. Leliana glanced at the small elven woman, a grin upon her pretty face.

“Mamae would tell me,” the elf stated, her face softened by memory, “that the trees would walk, and the very trails reorient themselves, trapping the unwary within their boughs for all eternity.”

Her fellow warden glanced down at her. “Really?” he grimaced. “Trees actually walked?”

Roland snorted behind them, and the elf grinned wider, looking over her shoulder to the knight. He waggled his red brows at her, and she shook her head. “Be wary, Ser Knight,” she scolded playfully. “Lest one of the wild sylvans take hold of you and drop you onto one of the ever changing trails.”

Here he laughed, stepping nearer the woman, smiling down at her. “You tease,” he proclaimed. “Surely those things do not happen.”

It was Leliana who laughed, and Morrigan, walking beside her, scoffed at the knight. “How very droll,” the witch uttered. Roland turned to glare at her. “And how very narrow your mind is, Ser Gilmore,” she continued, smirking over at the bard with a sidelong glance. “We live in a world where the dead walk, where demons can assume human form. And yet you walk here, amongst the eldest of the forests of Thedas, and proclaim certain can not be so.” She arched a brow at him, tipping her head forward. “How very fortunate we are, indeed, to have one of such astuteness amongst us to assure all of what is and what is not possible.”

Leliana giggled, bumping into Morrigan’s shoulder. The witch merely grinned, accepting the contact with merely a raised brow. Shaking his head, Roland turned back to the pretty elf before him, who was now shaking her own head. But at him.

“Morrigan is correct, you know,” she smiled at him. “Why, on our journey, have we not experienced things that others have said could not be possible?” She watched as the knight digested that. “Who truly can say what is and what isn’t possible?” She turned back to watch her steps, noticing the Alistair had moved just a bit closer to her side as she lightly scolded the knight.

She did not notice the smirk the other warden tossed at the knight, or the glare he received in return.

“So,” Alistair said to his fellow warden, turning his attention away from his rival. “Your mother was Dalish, right?”

Adela nodded her blond head, smiling at up the tops of the trees overhead. “Yes, she was.” She grinned over at Alistair. “I certainly hope it is her clan we happen upon,” she admitted. “It would be nice to see if any of her family survive.”

“And if they would accept you?” Alistair knew all too well the need and desire for family, and knew how much family meant to the elf beside him. Adela nodded in confirmation, continuing to lead the band through the forest.

The band traveled through the forest for several days, making quick camps when the sun settled to the west, rising once the sun had risen to resume their journey. The weather still held, and was warmer than they had anticipated.

During their seventh night in the Forest, Adela had settled down before the fire, one of the smaller pieces of ivory Roland had given her in hand, a curved bladed knife in her hand as she contemplated the piece. She set the blade down, frowning at the piece of white ivory in her hand. She glanced over and watched as Roland and Alistair sparred. A sudden inspiration came upon her and she pulled up the pouch by her side. Reaching in, she plucked out the largest piece of ivory, setting the smaller one back within. Her hand brushed against the ironbark therein.

Pulling out the ivory, she then placed a large cloth across her lap. She settled back, her carving knife back in hand. With a grin, she began to carefully carve the unwanted pieces away, letting them fall to the cloth adorning her lap.

Zevran had settled down across the fire, watching as her quick, agile fingers held the tiny knife, carving flakes of ivory from the main mass. His eyes furrowed as he noticed she continued to flake off the valuable bone, moving the knife around the form continuously. Finally, his curiosity overruled him and he had to ask. “Why not simply cut away the larger pieces that do not belong?” his heavily accented voice obtained a deeper tone with his curiosity. “Why move the blade around the entire mass slivering off mere slices?”

Adela grinned, her dexterous fingers continuing their work. “If I were to make a mistake,” she explained as she continued removing thin slices. “It is easier to spot the mistake while removing small bits of the ivory and fixing it.”

She raised her blue-blue eyes briefly, then turned them back to her work. “If I removed large hunks of the ivory, I could make a mistake and not have anything to work with to correct the mistake.” She frowned as she turned the piece in her hands. “I would hate to have to waste this piece and try to find a replacement when all I needed to do was do the work carefully and patiently.”

Her hands stopped, and she lifted her head to smile over at the other elf. “It actually saves no time to cut larger pieces out rather than the smaller slices. The time saved by cutting hunks out is actually then wasted to try and smooth out the edges and reshape the figure.”

The assassin smiled, still watching her long, delicate fingers. “Patience, then, is the key, no?” he replied, lifting his eyes to smile into the younger elf’s face. She nodded, returning the smile yet keeping her eyes upon her work.

She was comfortable in Zevran’s presence, something she knew that both Roland and Alistair, along with Morrigan, could not understand and openly and loudly disagreed with on occasion. The elven warden stood by her decision to allow the assassin to join their group. In the few weeks he had been with them, he had proven to be an excellent fighter, stabbing out from the shadows and disabling foes with an almost unreal ease. She was even starting to consider him a friend of sorts. She was pleased that the assassin had befriended Niall, and had noticed the change in Niall’s normally shy demeanor. The human mage was more open now, likely to joke along with everyone else rather than sticking closely by Adela’s side, as had been his wont when he first joined up with the crew. Of course, she had also heard the sounds coming from the mage’s tent. Sounds that Roland later clarified that the mage had taken the assassin on as a lover. She grinned when she thought of the knight’s face when he had advised her of that - it rather reminded her of someone who had eaten an unripe lemon: tough to chew and extremely sour.

Adela looked over to where the knight stood beside Alistair, both men now standing, talking quietly with one another. She was glad the two were getting along. They tended to badger one another at every opportunity they got.

She turned back to the carving in her hand; Zevran remained seated beside her, moving only when Niall came over to join the pair. A grin crossed Adela’s lovely face when the mage placed an affectionate arm around the assassin’s shoulders.

DA:O

His blade parried one well aimed swing, barely twisting it away from him as his opponent’s shield bashed against his own. Both men circled each other, sizing the other up. Evenly matched on many levels, his opponent still had the upper hand in sheer strength.

So, he had to make up the difference with agility.

Skipping to the side, setting his feet under him just so, the knight twisted his wrist, swinging his blade trying to catch the side of the Warden’s shield to push it aside. Alistair pulled his shield back, thrusting out with his own blade, seeking to gain entrance around the knight’s shield.

A giggle from the campsite caused both men to pause, their eyes shifting to where their - their - elven warden sat, a little too close to the elven assassin.

Green eyes met amber, and both men wore matching frowns.

“I don’t like her being so close to him,” Alistair complained as he lowered both his weapon and shield to step closer to Roland. The knight agreed.

While both men had come to an unspoken agreement that they were rivals for Adela’s affections, they were less than thrilled with the prospect of the elven assassin adding his own voice to the competition. Zevran was too worldly, too experienced, and Adela just too naïve to understand the difference between genuine affection - such as possessed by both Roland and Alistair - and a sheer desire to win a conquest to warm his bed. Not thrilled with the prospect of her going to the other, both men were less so with Zevran ever getting his hands on her.

“I do not know how she can trust him,” Roland muttered, turning to look at Alistair. The Warden turned his gaze from Adela’s smiling face to match Roland’s scowl.

With a shrug, Alistair replied, “He has proven…somewhat trustworthy, these past weeks,” he offered weakly, still frowning. “I’d just rather he not sit so close to her.” Another giggle brought both sets of eyes back to the campsite.

Adela was carving something from the ivory Roland had given her, and Zevran seemed interested in her work. Roland knew, however, that sometimes men would feign interest in something a woman they pursued was skilled in. He knew this firsthand; he had implemented the same measures himself many times in his own pursuits.

Frowning deeply, he looked over at the man he considered his chief rival for the girl’s attentions. “We should come to a gentleman’s pact,” the knight remarked, watching as Alistair’s eyes lit with interest.

“How so?” the Warden drawled, wondering what the knight was up to.

Taking a breath, Roland answered, “There’s no denying that we each have feelings for Adela,” he watched as Alistair’s eyes narrowed slightly, and then nodded. “And I think we can agree that each of us have Adela’s best interests at heart.” He turned and saw that Adela was watching them and smiled at her as her eyes met his. She returned the smile. Alistair turned in time to see the elf turn back to her work. “We are gentlemen, and would not…sorely use Adela for our own gain.” Alistair nodded his agreement. “So, we will make certain the elven assassin does not seek to compromise our lady’s honor.”

The two men eyed each other for a moment, and then, Alistair nodded again. “So be it,” he said, holding out his hand.

With that, both men stepped back, raising weapons and shields, seeking to remove the other from his feet.

DA:O

Two days later and the group found themselves in one of the Dalish camps wandering the Forest. At first, Adela had been excited. Although not her mother’s clan, she was still thrilled with the prospect of meeting and interacting with the wild elves.

Her thrill and joy had been short lived.

First was the rather rude greeting she had received from the hunter that had found them. Being an elf, she had expected at least a cordial greeting, however, it was the huntress’s term for her that caused her spine to stiffen.

Flat ear.

She had heard her own mother use the derogatory name for those elves born in the influence of humans. Being half Dalish, the girl had never thought of herself as such. And yet, it was glaringly obvious that this would be how her mother’s kin would see her.

Gritting her teeth, wanting to respond with a scathing retort, knowing that would not do anything to help their situation, Adela motioned for her companions to follow. She noticed - as did her fellows - that several of the Dalish fell in behind them, their bows trained upon them, ready to release arrows into their midst.

Not quite the welcome she had hoped for.

Alistair, seeming to sense the elf’s unease, shifted closer to her, his amber eyes glancing down at her with concern every now and again. Adela was chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, a sign that she was agitated and worried.

The hunters led the strange group to a taller elven male, dressed in robes with an ornate staff holstered to his back. An intricate tattoo outlined his forehead and nose, giving him an almost hawkish countenance. His piercing gray eyes - so similar to her mother’s - stared at the group, taking in the mismatch of race, mage, warrior and rogue. His eyes strayed longer upon Zevran’s face, taking in the tattoo that traced his left cheek, and settling, finally, upon Adela’s young face. She noticed the elven mage’s face scrunch up slightly in thought, and she thought she saw a brief flicker of recognition cross his eyes. Both the thoughtful look and recognition vanished from his face, taking on a haughty stare.

“Ah, Mithra,” he greeted the lead hunter as they stopped before him. “I see we have guests. Strangers,” his eyes settled once again upon Adela. “Led by one of their elves, I see.” The way he said ‘their elves’ left no doubt that to Adela that she had just been insulted.

“Indeed, Keeper,” the one called Mithra responded, her eyes skimming over the heads of the group, as though to settle her eyes upon them would be an insult to her. “They claim to be Wardens, but I have seen nothing to indicate it to be so.”

Adela frowned at that - wasn’t Alistair carrying a shield with the Warden insignia? Did she and he not wear the Warden Oaths?

The Keeper nodded his hairless head, turning his attention back to the group. He turned his eyes to Zevran, ignoring Adela. “How may we be of assistance, then, Grey Warden?”

Zevran would have been amused, save that this arrogant elf had just insulted the woman who had spared his life and who was his friend. He lifted his chin defiantly, stating, “I am not a Grey Warden.” he waved a hand toward Adela, who was standing, willing to wait for Zevran to speak. “The young lady here is the Warden Commander of Fereldan.” The assassin finished with a deep bow to the younger elf, a smile on his face for her, his eyes only betraying the anger he felt toward to the Dalish Keeper.

Surprise clear in his eyes, the Keeper turned to the young elf. “Truly?” He did not sound convinced. “That one of the flat ears would lead the Grey Wardens?” He apparently thought Zevran to be Dalish.

Adela’s spine stiffened, and she took a step forward, her blue eyes flashing. She was Adaia Mahareil’s daughter. She would not let this man talk down to her.

“I am Adela Mahariel Tabris,” she said, her voice strong and clear. She was pleased to see a look of actual recognition and slight respect cross the Keeper’s face. “I am the appointed Commander of the Grey here in Fereldan,” she reached into her pouch, pulling forth the treaty that obligated the Dalish. “This,” she held it out to the keeper, “is a treaty obligating the Dalish - you - to come to our aid during a Blight.” She lifted her chin higher. “You have been summoned, Keeper, and therefore must contact other clans and see to your duty.”

She thought she heard Morrigan snicker a bit from the back; and she could almost hear the ‘good for you‘ in that sound. Adela had to admit it, she rather liked ordering the self-important Keeper about. She schooled her features into an impassive mask, watching as the myriad of emotions crossed the elder elf’s face, containing a smirk when she noticed the surrounding hunters’ faces drop in incredulous expressions.

Adela decided she did not wish to join a Dalish clan any longer, if this was how they treated any elf seeking them.

She watched as the Keeper swallowed somewhat, and she believed it must have been some of his pride. He bowed respectfully to her. “I am Zathrian,” he said, his voice smooth, “Keeper of this Clan.” He rose, his eyes again searching her features. “I take it you are Adaia Mahareil’s daughter?”

Adela did well to hide her surprise and nodded her head slightly.

“Your mother was well known to us,” he continued. “She was a fierce Hunter, and represented her clan well. Her brother was the Keeper of their clan and ruled wisely, until his untimely death at the hands of shemlen and flat ears,” He ignored the raised brow of the younger elf. “We had all thought Adaia killed during the Shemlens’ rebellion against their conquerors.”

Adela smiled, “Mamae fought alongside the Fereldan King and helped win back the land for his people,” she explained. “She met and married my father, a craftsman. She became the protector of the Denerim Alienage, until her death.”

Zathrian smirked slightly, then bowed his head, “Ah. Such was Adaia. Always wanting to protect those far weaker than herself.” His eyes searched Adela’s. “Of course it would lead to her death.”

Not wanting to get into this kind of a conversation, Adela pushed the issue of the treaty. “Keeper, we have a Blight to contend with. Whatever your feelings regarding humans and those elves born away from the clans is not an issue…”

“True,” the Keeper replied, raising a hand, cutting off whatever Adela was going to say. “However, our clan is in no position to help you. You may well need to continue your search for another clan to spread the word of the Blight.”

No, no…”No,” she responded firmly, a frown on her face as she stepped closer. The nearby hunters shifted, making ready to protect their Keeper. “We have a treaty that obligates you, Zathrian,” she maintained a steady hold on her rising temper. She’d dealt with human nobles who were not so obstinate. “You will be in a position to promise your warriors, you will contact the other clans,” she stood toe to toe with the elder now, and he took a step back away from her. “You will take a stand against the Blight as I order, as these treaties signed by the Clans necessitate you perform your duty by them.”

There was a moment of utter silence and extreme tension. Even the sounds coming from the main bulk of the camp seemed not able to penetrate the ominous hush where the companions stood, where the young elf confronted the elder Keeper of the Dalish clan. It was Zathrian who broke the silence, deep regret, an almost hesitant respect in his voice.

“I apologize, Commander,” he said softly. “But our clan is in no position to assist as the treaty demands.” He frowned. “Come, I shall explain our situation.” And he led the group deeper into the camp, flanked by several of his hunters.

As they trekked further into the Dalish camp, each of the companions took note of the many sick elves lying about on makeshift cots set up in open tents. Adela noticed that there were no children running about, and that the atmosphere within the camp was subdued, almost funereal.

Frowning, she quickened her pace to match step with the Keeper, waiting for him to find his voice to explain what was going on.

When he did find his voice to explain, Adela found she did not like what was being said.

The Dalish had been attacked - ambushed - by a pack of werewolves that inhabited the nearby trees. Many of the clan’s folk had been injured or killed. Those who lay sick in the camp were waiting - waiting to die, to submit to the curse and become werewolves, waiting to recuperate. For his people’s own protection, Zathrian had forbidden any to enter the Forest, and so they sat, waiting for death or worse to settle upon them.

Adela frowned. The stories her mother told her of the Dalish did not include a willingness to sit down and wait for death. That they did nothing to better their circumstance screamed out as wrong to the young elf. Especially when Zathrian explained that by hunting and killing the source of the curse - this Witherfang - would end their suffering.

“So why do you sit here waiting for death?” the angered elf demanded, turning back to face the Keeper. She felt pity for the clan, that much was true. But to sit there and die? And they had the nerve to belittle the elves that were city born? She scoffed at his weak explanation that they could not afford to loose any others.

“So, I suppose you want us to go in and take care of this Witherfang?” Adela snarked out, not meaning to be cruel, but finding her temper rising too quickly to contain it.

“If you wish for our assistance against the Blight,” the Keeper responded.

Adela turned her back to the man. She hated that so many of these people - her mother’s people - were suffering. But, they had been delayed so much by now, and still had to find the Urn to save the Arl. “Are there any other clans in the area?” she asked, her voice level, completely ignoring the astonished gasps and looks several of her companions shot her way. She turned slowly to study the Keeper’s face.

He nodded, his face an impassive mask. “There are several to the south, one to the north,” he responded, frowning. “Although those to the south may have encountered darkspawn…” he frowned, turning his sight toward the south, as though he could see the clans he spoke of. “Your mother’s clan is the one to the north, closer to the area the Shemlen call Highever.”

Roland stiffened somewhat at the mention of Highever.

Adela bowed her head. She did not like the idea of leaving these people to fend on their own. She could feel the eyes of Alistair, Roland, Leliana and Niall upon her; Morrigan and the Sten merely waiting quietly awaiting her order. Zevran was busy trying to stare down the Keeper that he said nothing nor gave anything away on what he was thinking.

Hafter bumped against the small elf, whining slightly as he settled upon her feet. Absentmindedly, she reached down to scratch between his ears.

Raising her head, she replied, “We will agree to help you,” this was accompanied by a slight growl from the Sten, but she easily ignored it. “But, you need to get messengers out to the other clans, advising them of the Blight and the treaty,” she watched closely as the Keeper nodded his agreement, noting the relief that crossed his features. “Regardless of the outcome,” she pointed at him, her eyes narrowing, “the Dalish will honor their obligations.”

Zathrian looked as though to say something, but decided against whatever words he had in mind. Slowly, he nodded, calling Mithra nearer, advising her to gather several runners. With a slight bow, he turned from the group, seeking out his own aravel to compose missives to the nearby clans.

Feeling slightly sick, as though she had just ransomed every life in the clan, Adela turned to her companions to work out strategy for entering the legendary Brecilian Forest.

DA:O

Alistair was not happy. He scowled as he surveyed the supplies he and his fellows were pulling and packing deeper into their packs, pulling non-essentials out and leaving them in the tent the Keeper had provided them for their unnecessary items.

Adela had suggested that the party split into two groups to search out the areas of the forest. It was not this decision he was unhappy with. It made sense: she had argued they had lost enough time as it was, and that searching two areas of the forest simultaneously would cut the time they spent searching out Witherfang and the werewolves. Alistair agreed with that decision, actually.

What he was unhappy about was that he would be leading one group while she the other.

Alistair never liked it when he was separated from Adela.

He was even more unhappy when their fearless leader proclaimed that Alistair’s group would consist of Leliana, Morrigan, and Sten. Her group would consist of Roland, Zevran and Niall. Of course Hafter would be part of her group as well.

He did not like the idea that Roland would be with her without Alistair being present to run interference. Even worse that she had Zevran in her group as well. He glanced down at his now full pack, frowning. A sudden thought came to mind, and that frown turned upwards to a smile.

Grinning almost goofily (and he knew it, too), the Warden went in search of his Commander.

He found her rearranging her own pack, handing several packets of elfroot and flasks over to Niall for the mage to place into his own pack. The elf looked up at her friend, smiling at him as she pulled the cinch tight on her pack and rose.

“Everything all set?” she asked as she dusted off her hands and turned to face the other Warden.

Alistair nodded, still grinning at her. Adela quirked an elegant brow at him in an unspoken question.

“You know,” Alistair replied smoothly, moving closer to the elf, the grin smoothing out to a smile. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Now there’s a turn for the better,” Morrigan muttered as she swept past the pair to procure some of the elfroots from Niall’s pack.

Alistair chose to ignore the irritating witch, his attention fully upon the lovely elf standing before him. Adela merely smirked at the witch before turning back to Alistair.

“What have you been thinking, Alistair?” Adela prompted, still not taking in the smile her fellow Warden wore plastered upon his handsome face.

“About our bet,” he quipped out, stepping just slightly nearer. A sense of satisfaction flowed through him as he noticed the hesitant look cross Adela’s face as she lifted her face to his.

Cautiously, she asked, “What about it?” She did not seem to notice that the pair had their companions’ attentions, especially Roland’s. Alistair did notice it.

“Well, you see…this whole situation with the Dalish,” he swept out a hand to encompass the camp. “This, to me, suggests that I won our bet. You know, that something would come up so that procuring the treaty wouldn‘t be all that easy.” He grinned widely. “No time saved here.”

That pinking of her cheeks Alistair enjoyed so much rose, and she asked in a very soft voice, “And you mean to collect on it…now?” she looked quickly about them, noticing the others, her blush rising even deeper. If his scowl was any indication, it was obvious that Roland noticed the change in Adela’s coloring.

Nodding, he stepped very close, putting his hands on her shoulders, a thumb rubbing against where her neck and shoulder joined. “I think now is as good a time as any.” He almost breathed this part out, feeling a certain tightness in his throat. As outwardly calm and confident as he may outwardly have seemed, he was far from feeling how he looked.

“In front of everyone?” she asked, almost in a whisper, before biting her lower lip.

Nodding, Alistair merely bent his head down, bringing his lips to hers as his hands moved to the back of her head, pulling her closer, moving her head upwards to allow better access to her mouth. He wasn’t going to just give her a quick kiss, as friendly as the ones she liked to bestow upon him.

It was nice that Adela relaxed against him.

His lips enclosed upon her lower lip, pulling it from her teeth and he gently sucked on it for a moment before moving his lips to cover her mouth. He more felt than heard the sigh that came from the elf in his arms, and he took that as encouragement. Deepening the kiss, he pressed her against him, his tongue slipping out to sweep over her soft lips. She tasted of honey and berries, most likely from their meal earlier. And her smell - she always had that clean scent of sweet fern about her, and he found his body reacting quite pleasantly to her. Her small hands rose to his chest, but not to push him away. Her own lips moved against his, starting to share in the kiss, when her blue eyes flew open and she gasped. The Warden pulled away reluctantly, staring into her blue eyes, now darkened to a deep sapphire. His body screamed out at the loss of contact. He watched as her eyes went from dark and passionate to confused, and she stammered out that she had to finish getting ready to leave, and hurriedly left his embracing arms.

Steadying himself, ordering his breathing to slow, his heart to stop pounding, the human Warden then took note of the almost triumphant look in Leliana’s blue eyes, and heard the snickering and chuckles from Zevran, Niall and Morrigan. Roland shot him a look of pure and utter hatred, while, as always, the Sten merely looked bored.

Deciding he got his point across, Alistair smirked over at Leliana, whose smile widened and she gave him a quick wink, letting him know that he did good in her book. Zevran walked past, patting him on the shoulder, while Niall merely shook his head, trying hard not to further encourage the younger man.

Picking up his pack he glanced back at Roland. Suddenly, he was very pleased that the knight was not going to accompany him into the Forest. The look he gave the ex-templar was far from friendly.

However, Alistair could not make himself feel badly about it. Especially since Adela seemed to not only enjoy the kiss, but had started to return it as well. And the look that crossed her pretty face…that, too, gave him cause to hope that all was not lost.

He could not help but whistle as he gathered up the other party members and begin their trek into the surrounding trees.

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to Arsinoe de Blassenville for always reading and reviewing. A few of us authors have noticed reviewing has gone down as of late, but the story & author alerts/favorites seem to be going up. Plus, I see that this story is approaching 300 readers a day. Not too shabby. And, shameless plug here: I’ve started a new full length story, Beyond the Sylvan Paths. It’s a twist to the Dalish origin story line.

As always, I own nothing, save for my little elven lass here, Adela. BioWare has the privilege of owning this incredible universe.

As always, read, review, crit, alert…always nice.

The Hall Reborn
Chapter 25

He blinked the grit from his eyes, rubbing the back of a large hand across his forehead. Eyes opened, he turned slowly, taking in the now familiar scene before him. Soft, gray light enhanced the room he was in, a small, round table set off to the side, platters of food set upon it, their silvered lids gleaming in the cool light. Two chairs were tucked neatly under. Behind him stood a large, comfortable bed, the bedding neatly arranged and tucked in tightly at the corners. A fire blazed in the stone fireplace, but the warmth of the flames did not reach out into the gray room. He glanced down at himself and found that he was wearing the same comfortable trousers and linen shirt he always wore when in this place.

A scowl formed across his rugged features, icy blue eyes narrowing. Damn it! He cursed silently, pacing to the table. Lifting the cover from one platter, he noted it was roast duck. The scowl deepened. Had he not known otherwise, he would think this a fruitless endeavor. Yet, even here, he knew that taking in the sustenance would benefit him out there. And so, rather than standing there scowling at the food, he settled into a chair, and began eating of the spread.

Chewing, he noted that, as always, the food had taste, calling upon his memories of what the repast would truly taste of had it been in the waking world. His scowl deepened as his gaze swept over the room yet again.

He was well aware of his prison, knew that he could open the door and be anywhere within the Palace, anywhere within Denerim, or anywhere within Fereldan. It apparently made no difference to his captor; the Fade was an expansive prison, one which was easy to recall the prisoner from at any time.

This was the Fade.

And his jailer had proven, time and again, how adept he was at manipulating the Fade to torture the man.

Loghain had decided some time ago to stop playing at Arawn’s games. He no longer left the confines of the room, but remained herein, eating, reading, or thinking. There had been times he had tried manipulating his surroundings, and he was learning how to do so. The book that now sat upon the bookshelf - the lone book - was one he had conjured from memory. A book from his childhood he had enjoyed. The only book he could recall verbatim, and it was one filled with stories of knights and villains, heroes and princesses. A silly childhood fairy tale, but one that now gave the older version of that boy some peace and serenity, a place for his mind to relax as he tried to ponder and work out how to thwart the mechanisms of Maric’s bastard.

“Well, this is new,” came a soft voice from the doorway. He cursed himself for not having heard it open, and closed his eyes as recognition of the voice settled in. He placed his food onto his plate, wiping his fingers before rising and slowly turning to face his visitor.

She always seemed to show up during his sojourns into the Fade. He wondered if the bastard knew of her or if she was just a conjuration of his own mind. He doubted he could have thought her up, not as she currently appeared.

Wearing that pretty pink dress Anora had made for her, Adela stood in the open doorway, her bluest of eyes focused upon his face, a frown creasing the corners of her mouth and eyes. The dress was familiar, as were those eyes. But nothing else was recognizable as the delicate elven artist he had known since she was a child.

For, beneath the dress he could see the outline of musculature of her arms, the lean grace of her slender body beneath the silken fabric. Upon her hands small criss-crossed scars, blaringly white, shone against her now tanned skin. But, most telling were the small lines that formed across her brow.

Those overwhelming eyes fixed upon his own, a blond brow quirking up as she awaited his response. Whether conjured by the bastard who now commanded him or of his own imaginings, she was company, and he found himself despairing in his isolation.

“To you, perhaps,” he said in that cold, calm way he always did. He did not fail to notice that the corners of Adela’s pretty mouth tilted upwards in a slight smile.

“I take it you have found yourself here often?’ She asked as she stepped into the room, studying the near bookless shelves, the too neatly made bed and the food laden table. Loghain scoffed at that, settling back into his chair as the dream-Adela pulled the second from the table and perched herself down upon it, almost absentmindedly lifting the platter covers and inspecting the food.

She actually grinned as she surveyed the platter filled with sweets and pastries.

“I never knew you for such a sweet tooth,” she smirked at him as she lifted a chocolate petites four, nibbling at it. He watched as she lifted the treat to her lips, taking tiny bits with her small, white teeth, her pink tongue licking up stray crumbs.

“Hmmm…” he said, “I try not to indulge, as you know.” She smiled at him, placing the pastry back onto the platter.

Her eyes again did a scan of the room, resting upon the bookshelf. “I would have expected more books,” she said pointedly, frowning.

He shrugged. “So would I,” he replied, frowning. “However, trying to remember books verbatim is not a task I have committed myself to.”

If she heard him, she gave no indication. Instead, her eyes were settled back upon his face, that thoughtful frown - one he knew well from watching her at her work or listening as Cailan and Anora sought her advice on things dealing with the Alienage - back in place as she studied him. It felt so much like her that it almost - almost - unnerved him. However, he knew that she was dead, and that this was merely his own pathetic need for companionship. That he choose her instead of any of the others only proved how pathetically lonely and distraught he was over the current situation.

“What are you watching for?” he asked, impatient, now only wanting her to just leave.

That brow rose again, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m just trying to see the Loghain that would leave his king and the wardens behind to die to darkspawn hands,” she seemed to ignore the anger that rose in his eyes and the clenching of his hands upon the table. Her eyes continued their scrutiny of his face. “However, all I see is you,” she frowned again, shaking her head.

“Tell me, Loghain,” she asked her voice strong, yet soft. “was it always in you to allow the murder of so many?” Her head tilted to the side slightly as she watched his reaction. “For no greater good, for no gain, save for perhaps something that was never yours?” Her frown deepened. “Is that why I can only see you as I have always seen you? Instead of as a monster responsible for regicide and the possible death of his nation?”

Fury ignited within him, and he launched himself to his feet, his eyes blazing with cold anger. He reached over to grasp the small elf woman, but she had gracefully leapt to her feet, and now danced away from him, her entire demeanor changed.

“I did not leave Cailan and the Wardens to perish!” he raged, stepping nearer to the withdrawing elf.

“And yet they are dead!” she scoffed back, and he watched as her attire changed. No longer was she clad in the pretty dress he knew to be her favorite. But neither was she dressed in her mother’s leather armor, but wore instead a short robe that came to her knees, a deep ‘V’ neckline showing much of her cleavage, leaving her arms bared. He almost absentmindedly to note of how very tan her flesh had become. Her daggers - Adaia’s daggers - were now naked in her hands, and her bow was slung along one shoulder, her quiver slung low and tilted to her back. Her long blond hair, loose just moments before, was now bound tightly in a plait down her back, wispy curls framing her fierce face. She reminded him so much of Adaia. Yet, she had something that Adaia, in all the time he had known her and fought beside her: compassion. Despite their current confrontation, despite that this was merely a pale reflection of Adela, the compassion he knew so well in her was there, reflected in those impossibly blue eyes.

Loghain stilled, watching the elf before him. He could almost feel her anger, her displeasure. This was not how she had visited him before during his stay in the Fade. Always, they had talked of other things, never of the current situation. And now she pushed, trying to get answers from him. Was it his way of trying to get answers? After all, these were questions he had asked himself, during his more lucid moments in the waking world. Had Arawn been able to control his actions even then? Or had he always had the capability to cause such atrocities? In the name of fealty to his nation? Regardless of cost to king and country? He doubted it, strongly.

“I did not abandon Cailan,” he repeated, quietly, his eyes fixed upon her beautiful face. “We have all been betrayed, and I am powerless to stop it.”

With that admission, Adela’s battle stance eased, and she stared at the man before her in confusion. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but then tipped her head to the side, as though listening. Still frowning, she stepped forward, her blades still in hand, but held loosely at her sides. Those deep, thoughtful eyes scoured his features, piercing into his very soul. And, then, without another word, she vanished from his sight.

Releasing the breath he had held, the Teyrn stared at the space she had occupied before settling back down into his chair.

DA:O

A firm hand, gentle, rested upon her shoulder, giving it a soft shake. “Adela?” Roland’s voice called to her, quietly. The elf opened her eyes, smiling up into the greens of the knight.

“Did I oversleep?” she asked as she pushed herself from her bedroll, taking quick note that Zevran and Niall slumbered not too far from where she lay. The small fire they had set up still burned, offering some warmth to the bedrolls set nearby.

A broad smile crossed Roland’s handsome face as he reached down to help her to her feet. “No. But, you weren’t sleeping very soundly, so I thought I should wake you.”

Her smile matched his as she settled before the fire, reaching over to inspect the stew pot. Finding it empty, she then reached for the kettle and set it upon the fire to heat the water.

“Thanks,” she replied, pulling out a cup and some tea. “Since we’ve gotten to this part of the Forest, I’ve been having very strange and…vivid dreams.” She sat, frowning into the flames. She felt Roland take a seat beside her and looked up.

“I have noticed that your sleep has been restless,” he said with sympathy, recalling how two nights prior she had sat up, screaming in her sleep, and how it had taken all three of her companions to settle her down, Hafter laying atop her legs to help keep her still.

Niall had explained that Adela had developed a strong sensitivity to the Fade, most likely brought about by her prolonged exposure to the Fade during their trip through the Circle. When Roland had pointed out that the others - including the mage himself - had been in the Fade as long or longer, Niall quickly pointed to the fact that Adela had been aware - awake - which was almost unheard of for someone with no magical ability whatsoever. Everyone else, except for himself, had succumbed to their dreams, and it was Adela who had awakened them. Niall, as a mage, was more comfortable in the Fade.

Adela had also learned how to shape shift within the Fade, effectively manipulating the dream realm to suit her own needs. That, too, had been only something only a mage - and a powerful one - would be able to do during the aware state. Although a dreamer may be able to manipulate dreams while in their dream state, to do so while awake and aware within the confines of the Fade was extraordinary.

Now that they traversed the Brecilian Forest, an area known to have pockets of thinning Veil. He predicted that Adela’s own sensitivity would be more pronounced.

The kettle started whistling, and Roland bent forward, picking it up and pouring some of the steaming water into Adela’s cup. He noticed that the elven woman was watching him from the corner of her eyes. Arching a brow, he grinned over at her.

“Something on your mind?” he asked as he settled back down.

Blowing across the top of her cup, she nodded. “I was wondering how you were doing?” she asked as she took a cautious sip, grimacing at the heat of the beverage.

“I’m well,” the knight replied, a little confused by her concern. “Why? Have I given any indication I am unwell?”

Smiling, she reached over and patted the knight on his arm. “No,” she replied, taking another small sip of her tea. “Actually, you seem to have recovered from your ordeal very well.” She raised her face, her eyes searching Roland’s face.

He was tired, but they all were. They had been traveling within the Forest for several days, and battled many packs of werewolves, blight wolves, darkspawn and other creatures. Not only were their days spent battling such creatures, but, as Adela and Leliana had warned, the forest itself seemed intent on keeping them from its center, always turning them around, backtracking, returning to previously explored areas. It was wearing on the four companions, and Adela found herself worrying over Alistair and his group.

She was not worried about Roland’s well being; she could tell that he had recovered nicely and seemed strong and hale. What worried her was that he had yet to truly talk about his ordeal. Always one for full disclosure, Adela had found talking to be the best medicine. She had found solace in speaking with Alistair about her ordeal at the hands of Vaughan, and credited that talk toward her healing. She could only wonder at the scars Roland carried upon his heart and soul.

Roland watched as she studied his face, and she noticed a slight blush form on his pale skin. She had always wondered about that - he spent as much time in the sun as any of them, and yet his skin always had an almost alabaster quality to it. It never tanned, but had burned, only to give way, yet again, to the very pale skin. Realizing the direction her thoughts had gone, she felt a slight blush of her own.

They sat in silence with one another for several moments. Adela spoke. “You had mentioned the possibility of one of the Couslands having survived,” she reminded him, recalling when he explained his torturers had asked about the Cousland girl, Elissa. Roland nodded, frowning slightly.

“If anyone escaped it would be Elissa,” he confirmed softly, a hesitant quality in his voice.

Picking up on his uncertainly, Adela asked quietly, “Did you know her well?” She watched as his face fell slightly, and she thought she had her answer.

“No,” the knight replied, frowning as he looked over at the elf. “Elissa was…is a brave, skillful young woman. One of the most resourceful people I know. However,” his eyes took on a slight faraway look before settling back on her face. “Elissa was very aware of the differences in station.” He reached out and gently eased a stray lock of Adela’s hair behind her ear. “We had known each other since we were children, since before my father brought me to squire for the Couslands. Yet, there was no familiarity, no friendship. Only titles and duty, a great understanding that she was the daughter of a Teyrn, and I the squired son of a minor Bann.”

Adela listened, watching as his hand went back to his lap. “Did you love her?” she asked quietly, trying to figure out the pensiveness behind Roland’s behavior.

He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “As wonderful as many thought of Elissa - Cailan included - those of us who lived with her knew the truth behind her genteel nature.” He noticed she frowned. “Elissa wasn’t a bad person, just always, always aware and alert to the fact that her family was the second most powerful in all of Fereldan.” He shrugged. “I also recall her being very upset that Cailan choose Anora over her when the prospect of marriage came up.”

A small laugh escaped Adela’s lips. Roland looked at her questioningly. “Sorry,” she waved a tiny hand at him. “I’ve known Cailan and Anora since before they were wed. I have a hard time picturing Cailan with anyone other than Anora.”

The knight smiled. “I had forgotten you were friends with the royals,” he settled back a bit, his eyes fixed upon Adela’s face, thoughtful for a moment. “Elissa would not have liked you.” He said a slight touch of humor in his voice.

“Ha!” she swatted at him. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “Other than your being an elf…” he smirked. “You are far too pretty. Elissa never liked competition, and trust me, you are far more than merely competition.” He reached over and traced her cheek with one calloused hand, smiling as she blushed slightly at his compliment. “You are also too nice. People like you, regardless of any preconceptions they may have.” His eyes swept over to where Zevran lay as his hand fell from her face. “Even if they are paid to dispose of you, you have a knack for getting them to change their minds.”

The elf grinned. “That’s a talent more inherited from my father than my mother, I fear.” She sipped at her cooling tea. “Father can put anyone at ease, befriend anyone, and calm nearly any situation. Mother had more a talent for inciting riots.” She sighed, missing her mother more than ever. “But, she was brave, and strong. Had a firm sense of what was right. And even though she may not have liked the situation with the Alienage, she always did her best to protect the elves who lived there.” Her head bowed slightly. “I remember the funeral they had for her when she died.” She lifted her head, looking over at her friend. “She would have hated it!” she chuckled, recalling how the elves had buried Adaia, planting a tree upon her grave. It was the words they had spoken, from the Chant, admonishing the deceased to never walk the path to the Golden City that her mother would have hated!

Roland laughed, placing an arm across Adela‘s shoulders. “I would like to have met your mother,” he said, giving her a slight squeeze.

“I don’t think you would have,” she replied, her eyes scanning the surrounding woods. “She really didn’t like humans overly much.” She frowned. “Actually, I’d almost say she hated them. The only ones I knew she considered friends were Queen Rowan and Teyrn Loghain.” She lifted her face to his, unable to identify the look that crossed his face. “She didn’t like King Maric much.”

“Is that how you met Cailan and Anora?” Roland asked, not knowing Adela’s history with the family.

The elf shook her head. “No. I didn’t meet them until after my mother’s death. I know Mamae kept in contact with the Queen and Teyrn, but once the Queen died…” She shrugged her shoulders.

She frowned, her eyes dimming in memory. She told Roland how her mother had met her death, how Loghain had rescued her and brought her back to the palace so that he could advise Maric, immediately, of Adaia’s death, to try and make a point to the king of promises made and not kept. She remembered in great detail how Loghain had carried her mother’s body, his fine armor and clothing covered in her blood, the entire way through the streets of Denerim, through the nobles‘ quarter, past merchants and the Chantry, to the Alienage, seeking out her father, before relinquishing the body of his friend. The look that Loghain had shared with her father came back to her; the look shared by two men who lost something that had been important to them. She recalled how Loghain had looked to the small elven child that had followed him, quietly, in his shadow, and how he knelt to one knee to give that child a firm hug.

It was after that that he and Cyrion had reacquainted themselves, and how regular visits to the palace had ensued from there.

Sitting there, listening to her quiet voice, watching as the memories passed across her face, Roland nodded. “He was your hero,” he said insightfully.

Adela nodded. “For the longest time I was infatuated with him,” she grinned up into Roland’s face. “What little girl doesn’t dream of a hero to save her from the villains? He made me a part of his family, taught me how to handle a mabari, how to stand up for myself and never think of myself as just an elf.” She shrugged. “Sometimes those lessons are hard to remember.” She turned her face back to the fire.

“It must be difficult now,” Roland said after a few moments thoughtful pause. “To know that he had left the king and the wardens behind. To face the darkspawn alone.”

“It is,” she acknowledged. “But,” she turned back to the knight. “There are other things to ponder upon. And,” she smirked over at the two sleeping men behind them. “You need to get some rest. Come on,” she rose, putting out a hand for the knight to grasp. “Let’s wake these two sleepy heads so that you can get some rest.”

Taking her very small hand in his, giving it a squeeze, the knight rose to his feet, and went over to the sleeping men to awake them for watch duty.

DA:O

The next day found the group wandering the ever changing trails of the Forest. Roland and Adela led the group, Hafter taking point, at times racing ahead, sniffing out new smells, and then returning quickly. Niall followed behind the knight and elf, with Zevran, ever alert, at the rear.

Although the day was sunny and bright, the sunshine and warmth had difficulty penetrating the thick cover of the Forest. Shadows dappled the ground, creating shadowy areas and cooler shades. A light mist covered the ground in some areas, especially the areas nearer older growths and swampy grounds. Adela’s robes contained a charm so that she felt little of the chill in the air. She wore her cloak off one shoulder to allow better access to her bow and arrows. Poor Niall, however, had no such luck with his robes, and shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter about him. Both Roland and Zevran foreswore cloaks, complaining that they got in the way of combat and were a nuisance to remove prior to engaging the enemy.

Their journey that day took them into a portion of the Forest they had not been before. Or, at the very least, a portion that none of them recognized. The trees were very old here, and Hafter seemed a bit more on edge, more wary as he trotted ahead of the group, his sharp senses alert: ears raised and constantly twitching for sounds, nose more often than not to the ground, eyes constantly scanning, watching to be certain of his mistress’s position in the group as well as the path ahead.

Roland felt as on edge as the dog apparently was. A glance to the elven archer beside him alerted him to the fact that she, too, felt it. Niall pressed slightly closer to the two, making his own ill ease felt. A glance backward found Zevran’s own sharp elven eyes watching the area closely - his eyes focused above them rather than around them, scanning the treetops with apprehension.

“So,” Niall started after clearing his throat nervously. “You had another bad dream last night?” this question was directed to Adela.

She nodded. “Comes with the territory,” she replied, her eyes glancing back at the mage before resuming their scan of the area. She saw his confused expression and clarified. “All Grey Wardens experience…vivid dreams, especially during a Blight.”

“Ah,” the mage said wisely. “And with your own sensitivity to the Fade, these must be even more vivid.” His expression seemed one of a scholar taking mental notes, to file away for future reference.

“You’re the one saying I’m overly sensitive, Niall,” the elf pointed out good naturedly, emphasizing with a pointed finger to his chest. “I never said any such thing.”

The mage scoffed at her. “Really, Adela,” he gentled scolded, grinning at Roland. “I am an expert on the Fade, or have you forgotten how we met?”

“Forgotten?” She queried, glancing back again. “Oh, yes, completely forgot how we met, yes I did. Tower full of demons and abominations. Oh! And the pleasant excursion into the Fade.” She rolled her eyes then. “Completely forgot,” she ticked one finger off a temple, clicking her tongue. “Right out of my mind.”

She felt his long fingered hand settle upon her shoulder, twitching with a chuckle. “Yes, yes, my dear little elven Fade wanderer,” he just would not give up. “But, I tell you, the things you did in the Fade no non-mage ever could have - or should have - been able to do.” He removed his hand. “I stand by my initial assessment that you are sensitive to the Fade.” His brown eyes softened slightly. “I’d almost say that you could well have been mage-born, save the lack of spell casting.”

Adela was about to respond with a sarcastic comment when Zevran shushed them to silence. Roland immediately pulled his sword from his back, fixing his shield to his arm. Adela’s bow was in hand, an arrow held loosely in the other as her sharp eyes pierced the misty depths of the forest around them. Niall stepped back somewhat, a quick spell coming to mind.

It was then that they heard it: a low, grinding groan, like the creaking of wood. The noise grew in volume. The sound of snapping twigs and wood brought Adela around, her arrow fully nocked to her bow, bowstring pulled taut. She faltered for a moment as she saw the looming figure of an ancient tree, towering over the companions, its branches reaching out as arms. Blinking past her sudden fear, the elf let loose an arrow, one enchanted with fire, paying scant attention as some of the wild sylvan’s leaves caught aflame. Frowning in concentration, she nocked another arrow and let loose.

There is more creaking of wood groans and Niall found himself facing off against another wild sylvan. Cursing, the mage jumped back, his hands fanned out as flames spurted forth, catching the walking tree on fire. From the corner of his eye, he spied Zevran leaping forward, his daggers in hand, ducking beneath swinging branches. Now mindful of the elven assassin’s presence beneath the boughs of their woodland foe, the mage called forth a winter’s grasp spell, hoping to freeze the monstrous tree into immobility. Astonishingly, the thing shrugged off the magical assault, swinging out with a burning branch to snap the mage from his feet, sending him sprawling upon his back with an “oof“.

Arrow after arrow, each blazing with magical fire, flew into the thick boughs of the wild sylvan. Roland ducked beneath a swinging branch, raising his shield to deflect a second, driving forward with his sword, trying to pierce the tough bark of the tree’s trunk. Another groan erupted from the mobile tree, and he felt the ground shudder beneath his feet. Stumbling backwards, the knight braced his feet, striving to maintain his footing and balance. A sharp crack followed, and Roland found himself encased in a cage of twigs, branches and bark, all pressing against him, holding him immobile. He heard Adela cry out his name, but he could not turn his head to see her. He felt the heat rise as the wood encasing him caught aflame, and he found his movement no longer impaired. Pushing backwards, he broke through the weakened wood, staggering backwards, shield and sword raised, he was a bit singed, but free.

Zevran stared at the burning trunk in consternation, and then began hacking away at it with his daggers. He had no idea how, exactly, they would fell these behemoths, but the flames caused by Niall’s spells and Adela’s arrows seemed to be doing the trick. As he danced away from one sweeping, burning branch, he made a mental note to have a flame rune added to his daggers.

Adela’s fire arrows were starting to run low, and she wasn’t confident that the missiles enchanted with ice would do as much damage as those of fire. She was more aware than watchful of Roland’s continued hacking and bashing at the mobile and vicious tree, careful to avoid his ever moving form as arrow after arrow flew from her fingers. An echoing groan to her left told her that Niall and Zevran’s foe was being overtaken, and she hoped that it would fall soon so that the mage could apply his flame spells to this one. It was taking far too long.

Roland almost seethed. The damnedable thing just would not fall! He bashed at the thing with shield, hacking at it with his blade. Great hunks of wood and bark - burnt and otherwise - fell from the sylvan in abundance, yet still the thing struggled, stomped, swatted and bashed at the knight. He could hear Hafter growling and barking in the background, and then heard a sudden yelp from the warhound. Hoping the faithful beast was alright, he continued his assault. He could hear the fire crackling upon the other sylvan, but could not spare a glance from his current foe. Barely dodging one vicious strike, the knight rolled to the ground, bringing his shield up just in time to deflect a back blow from the creature.

From the corner of his eye, he watched the huge warhound sail through the air to lie motionless feet from where Adela stood, still streaking arrows into her foe. Frowning, the mage continued his magical onslaught of the wild sylvan. Niall’s mana was draining quickly as he continued to hurl spells at the quickly failing, burning tree. Fires crackled and continued to consume the ancient, dry wood and bark, rushing upwards towards the halo of leaves. Exhausted, the mage - more scholar than battlemage - stumbled backwards slightly, grasping a vial of blue liquid from his pouch and downing it in one, quick gulp. Reenergized, the mage called forth another blast of flame, sending it spewing upon the sylvan. He saw Zevran duck from beneath its canopy, skipping back into the open as it gave its final groan, falling to the forest floor with a great boom.

Panting, sparing a glance to the elf, the mage took out another vial, downing that as he turned toward the still battling form of the second wild sylvan.

Her fire arrows spent, Adela reached for one of ice. She noted with satisfaction that while it did not do the damage the fire did, the ice did cause the wild sylvan injury. Her eyes settled upon Roland’s kneeling form, his shield held upwards as he deflected the on coming swung of arms of wood. She aimed her bow at the appendage, firing it quickly as she reached for another arrow to let loose. The missile struck the assaulting branch cleanly, the force in which it hit the rotted wood, the ice of the enchantment weakening it further, allowing it to continue its trajectory through the wood and into the trunk behind. The second arrow cut through close to the first wound, weakening the appendage greatly.

Seeing the opportunity, Roland surged to his feet, leading with his shield, putting all his weight behind the strike as he smashed the bulwark into the appendage. He was rewarded with the sharp sound of snapping wood, and smiled grimly as the branch broke in half, the lower part falling to the ground.

“Ware yourself!” Niall cried out to Roland, barely allowing the warrior time to dodge out of the way as he sent forth a steady stream of flame. Maintaining concentration, using all of his mana, the mage moved his arms, allowing the flames to lick hungrily at the full length of the sylvan. Dry wood and bark crackled and caught afire, the flames consumed the ancient fuel, rising steadily upwards into the vast canopy of leaves, igniting the top of the tree. Thoroughly drained, Niall slumped to the ground.

Crying out in victory, Roland dashed forward, bashing his shield and slamming his sword into the quickly weakening sylvan. Zevran danced and dodged, slicing his blades into the wood. Eventually, the fires overcame the creature, and it, too, crashed to the forest floor, the flames continuing to consume the tree, leaving behind only a burnt husk.

Panting, the companions looked at one another, concern upon their features. Adela quickly slung her bow onto her shoulder, dashing over to the still seated Niall. He smiled weakly into her concerned face, waving away her questing hands, assuring her he was unharmed, merely tired. Nodding, the elf turned her attentions first to Zevran, the nearest. He had managed to escape injury, acquiring only scrapes and bruises, perhaps a singed lock of golden hair. Roland had taken more injury, and the elf insisted he remove his armor so that she could check him over and heal any injuries. Niall unstoppered another vial of lyrium, one less potent than those he took during battle, quickly quaffing it in one swallow. He rose, unsteadily, to assist in the knight’s healing. Zevran placed a steadying hand to the mage’s elbow, waggling his eyebrows at his lover as he helped him over to the others.

Roland escaped the battle with bruised ribs, several cuts, and some scorching. He grinned up at Adela, who was still nervously inspecting him for more wounds, trying to quell the concern and anxiety he saw etched upon her fine features.

“I promise from here on out,” the knight vowed weakly, trying to catch his breath, although whether from the battle or from the touch of Adela’s warm hands on his flesh he rightly could not say. “If you were to tell me that Andraste came back reincarnated as a dragon, I will believe you until there is proof to the contrary.” He winced slightly as he shifted, his bruised ribs protesting against the movement.

Adela smiled down at the knight as she applied a healing poultice to a particularly nasty gash. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Ser Knight,” she proclaimed, a twinkle in her blue eyes.

Zevran, his usual cool grin upon his face, slumped to the ground beside Niall, draping an arm across the mage’s shoulders. “You know,” he said in his heavily accented drawl. “I think it is time for a nap, no?” He gestured toward the still burning sylvans. “We have plenty of heat, yes/”

Staring at the elf, her hands just mere fractions from Roland’s skin, Adela shook her head, trying to stifle the laugh that threatened to force itself past her lips. Her eyes glance over to the knight, startled by the intensity behind his stare. With another shake of her fair head, she carefully wrapped a bandage about his broad chest, fastening it quickly, and then helped him replace the torn cotton undershirt he wore beneath his armor. Revitalized, Niall leaned over and cast another healing spell over the knight, taking care of any injuries Adela’s ministrations would not have been able to see to.

Once properly bandaged and attired, the party rose to their feet and, with a final glance at the smoldering corpses of the trees, headed away, trying to seek out and penetrate the center of the forest.

[SheilaD67]

Hmmm…add Loghain and I get more reviews than the previous chapter. Huh. Who’d’ve thunk it? Maybe I need to add him every chapter? Naw…can’t do that!

Anyway, thanks as always to Arsinoe de Blassenville (who always reads and reviews), mutive, Windchime68, Nithu, zevgirl; also to Biff McLaughlin and megglesnake who both sent me PMs; and for all the alerts, favorites, etc. that keep showing up in my mail bin. I love these!

As always, I am not going canon with game or stories. I just can’t do it! I have to twist it, make it my own in some, small way. Otherwise, I’d just go and play the game. Wouldn’t you?

As always, I own nothing (which is too bad; the money made from the game alone would, well, set me up for life) except for Adela.

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 26

　
The crackling of the fire nearly mesmerized, his vision blurry as his amber colored eyes fixed upon the flickering tendrils of flame. He was daydreaming, again. Allowing more pleasant thoughts to cloud the worry that he had been feeling since separating from Adela mere days before.

A movement to side alerted the young Grey Warden that he was not alone. Turning his red-blonde head, he spied Morrigan, seated closer to him than was usual, the black grimoire Adela had rescued from the desiccated remains of First Enchanter Irving’s office clutched tightly in her slender, graceful hands. He could not avoid the intense expression of worry that clouded the lovely witch’s face.

Frowning, realizing that she had planted herself so close, but had not yet said a word, Alistair decided it would be left to him to start. “So, Morrigan,” he drawled out, just a hint of sarcastic humor in his tone. “What brings you out this fine, lovely evening?” he questioned, glancing upwards at the dark canopy that obscured the moon’s light.

The witch returned the warden’s frown, and he could now see how very troubled her eyes were. She opened her to mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut, sneering over at the ex-templar. Sighing, realizing that she wasn’t going to say anything, he slumped forward, his arms dangling between his knees as he resumed his watch of the firelight, wondering how Adela and the others - but mostly Adela - fared.

“I have a worry, Alistair,” Morrigan’s voice, soft and filled with unease, broke him from his contemplation. Startled slightly, he raised his head, his eyes filled with question, prompting her silently to continue. The witch turned her dark head, those strange, predatory eyes fixing upon the flames Alistair had stared at for so long.

Realizing that she would need further prompting, he queried, “What worry do you have, Morrigan?” he tried this time to keep any sarcasm from his voice. She was obviously upset and, as the leader of the group, it was his job to see to any issues any of them had. After all, that was what Adela did, wasn’t it? In her nightly ritual of taking time to speak to each companion, to ensure he or she was comfortable, listening to any complaints, concerns, wonders or wishes they may have. He had wondered where the tiny elf had gathered the strength to do so. After all, other than he and Roland (both of whom, he admitted, had ulterior motives to lending an ear), none of the other companions truly offered their own shoulders upon which she could lean.

She’s wishing Adela was here as much as I am, the warden realized as he watched the hesitation with which the witch sat, her eyes squinting as she tried to gather whatever courage she needed to proceed. He waited patiently, knowing that this was what Adela would do, determined to act in such a manner that the elven warden would be proud of.

It took a few more minutes of staring into the fire, and finally Morrigan found her voice again. Turning to face Alistair, that look of consternation and fear still there, she began. “When Adela handed me this grimoire, I had hoped to find spells of my mother’s.” Her eyes clouded somewhat, expressing a sadness he had never thought to see in those eyes. “What I found instead was….not at all what had been expected.” She fell silent, those unnerving eyes straying to the black, leather bound tome in her hand, her fingers nervously fidgeting along the engraved surface.

“What?” he asked quietly, keeping the witch on track without forcing her to do so.

Almost as though startled, she glanced up. “Ever have I wondered,” she said quietly, “as to the secret behind Flemeth’s long life span.” She frowned. “The answer to that question lies within the pages of this tome.” She rose to her feet, nervously pacing before the fire. Alistair’s head twisted slightly at the sound of noise behind them; he realized it was Leliana leaving her tent, seeking a spot in the trees for relief.

Morrigan’s eyes followed the young Orlesian, and they turned back to the warden only when the red head vanished in the undergrowth.

“Long have there been tales of the daughters of Flemeth,” she said disjointedly, her explanation not following any clear lines of logic, stumbling upon themselves to be brought into the open. “Yet never have I met a one of them,” she slumped down to the log beside Alistair, her eyes searching his face. “Never had it been mentioned of their existence by Flemeth. And now, I know why.” She took a deep steadying breath. “Each one of those ‘daughters’ were, in fact, Flemeth.”

She watched as Alistair’s face scrunched in confusion before continuing. “When her body would grow old and wizened,” she explained hastily, just trying to get this out. How she wished Adela was here! “She would raise up a daughter. Whether of her flesh or otherwise, it is not clear,” she frowned, staring down at her hands now. “When that daughter became of age and power, Flemeth would then use her magic to usurp the girl’s body, making it her own.” Tears now shone in her eyes; tears of anger, concern, fear. Alistair felt a momentary pang of pity for the witch who so often taunted and teased him. And, here she was, pouring out a fear to him. Now he wished more fervently that Adela was here!

He reached over and placed a large, calloused hand over hers. Morrigan flinched slightly, but maintained a steady hold of her tongue and emotions, allowing the contact. “And that’s what she planned for you?” he prompted, watching as she nodded her dark head.

“Indeed,” she opened the pages, pointing to one entry. Alistair’s eyes scanned the strange runes, unable to decipher the writing, yet recognizing it as arcane runes used by mages. “Here she tells of the ritual used; how the spirit of the girl is forced out, the body taken over.” Her head rose defiantly. “I will not wait around like some empty sack to be filled!” venom scorched her voice, giving it power and determination.

“How can we protect you?” the ex-templar asked, determined that Adela’s friend would not suffer. As much as he and Morrigan did not get along, there was a comradely between them all, and Morrigan had proven time and again that she was a friend, a trusted ally. He watched as she seemed to struggle with herself, but she did respond.

“Flemeth needs to die,” she said after a moment, strength and determination sharp in her cultured, archaic voice. “However, I cannot be part of the undertaking.” She rose again, standing in front of Alistair, her hands on her hips. “If I were to be nearby when the deathblow is struck, there is no guarantee that she cannot usurp my body at that time.”

“You want us to kill her for you?” he asked, following along, unsure of this course.

She nodded. “Yes,” she settled down beside him again. “And yet, even then, I cannot be at all certain that she shall truly be dead. “ A frown formed upon her smooth brow. “I understand, Alistair, that you cannot make this decision without Adela,” she raised a slim hand, smiling faintly at the young man. “She is, after all, our leader and the one to make such decisions. I…” she bowed her head. “I only brought this up now as it has been festering in my heart and mind, and I needed its release should I go mad.”

He watched her down turned face, saw that she struggled against the tears in her eyes. The near panic in her voice moved him greatly, and he saw Morrigan not as some ****y witch intent upon every moment of discomfort she could inflict upon him, but as a frightened young woman who desperately needed her friends’ help. Friend. Hmmm…yes, he was her friend. Adela was far closer to her, but Alistair could well admit that Morrigan was his friend.

“I’ll talk with Adela about it when we regroup,” he promised, touching her tightly clasped hands lightly. Morrigan looked up, her expression a tender combination of surprise and thankfulness. “Knowing our fearless leader,” he grinned at her, trying to elicit a smile from the witch, “she’ll readily agree.”

Morrigan allowed herself a breath of relief and she nodded, patting Alistair’s hand with her own. “Thank you, Alistair,” she said quietly as she rose. Leliana was returning to the camp and, after a quick look to Morrigan, entered her tent. “I…shall retire for the eve.” With that, she left Alistair’s company to seek refuge in the quiet sanctity of her tent.

He watched her depart, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the fire, aware as the Sten rose to take up his watch for the evening.

DA:O

Did that mad old mage actually suggest that they go and make kindling of an ancient, sentient tree? Alistair’s eyes rolled and he smirked, catching a similar expression upon Morrigan’s face.

“All because you took his acorn?” the ex-templar asked, trying hard to keep the disbelief from his voice. Why he tried, he had no idea. The mage that stood before him - leaves and twigs hanging throughout his wild hair and unkempt beard, his brown eyes glazed over and yet sharp as any revered mother’s - seemed to take issue with every word - every sound - that came from Alistair’s lips.

“Ah, a question for a question, is it?” the mage rambled, his eyes narrowing as he clutched dirty hands to an equally filthy robe. “Fine, fine, we’ll play your games. And, you can report back to them!”

“Them?” Alistair muttered, frowning, still staring at the mad man before him. “I’m not…”

But the mage interrupted him, flashing a hand before Alistair’s eyes, causing the younger man to step back slightly to avoid being swatted. “No, no, no! That is not a proper question!”

Dumbfounded, the warden could only stare at the man. Morrigan scoffed at the mage and stepped forward. “A question has been asked, you foul old man!” the witch scolded, hands on her hips.

The mad mage stopped his ranting, and stood staring at the lovely witch. A slight twitch of his lips ensued. “A mage!” he screeched, causing the younger mage to flinch. “That’s cheating!”

“Cheating?” Alistair didn’t quite catch himself, and the mage went off on another tear about how he was not playing the game properly. Frustrated, glancing at his companions, the ex-templar merely waved his hands at the man, and motioned for the others to follow him, away from the crazy old man and his littered campsite.

Leliana cast one last look at the gallivanting mad man and then followed her companions away.

“Should we really have just…left him like that?” the Orlesian bard asked, concern heavy in her sweet, lilting voice.

Morrigan paused, turning toward the other woman. “He has been living thusly for some years, Leliana,” she said quietly, unexpectedly soothingly. “He shall be well enough. Perhaps better once we are well away from his site, no doubt.”

The Sten walked by the pair, disapproval in his lavender eyes for their pause. Frowning at his back, the women resumed their walk, following after the two men.

“How can you be so certain, Morrigan?” Leliana asked. She could not shake the concern for the old man. He needed company, food, a bath, clean clothing. She did not feel right in leaving him to his own devices.

Sighing softly, Morrigan bowed her head slightly, remaining silent for some time. Leliana did not say anything, recognizing the witch’s need to collect her thoughts, to decide just how much she was going to share. The bard was patient; she had recognized some time ago that Morrigan was unused to companionship, and had very little knowledge by way of social graces. Between Adela and Leliana, Morrigan had started sharing some knowledge of her previous life. But, each moment of sharing was accompanied by many times as much withdrawing. And so the bard merely continued to walk beside the silent witch, allowing her thoughts to gather. She noticed Alistair glance back at the pair of them a few times, and, with a smile, she assured him all was right. With a nod, he would turn his face forward. The final time he had done so, Leliana saw the look in his eyes, and realized anew just how much the young warden missed his elven commander. Sighing, deciding to do some work on her own love life at the moment, she turned a blue eye toward the witch beside her.

Seeing Morrigan struggle, Leliana tried to help push her a bit. “Was your life in the wilds terribly lonely?” she asked tentatively, keeping her eyes on the path before them, aware that Alistair and the Sten were several yards ahead, but still well in sight.

Startled, the witch raised her dark head, her yellow eyes fixed upon the serene profile of the bard. “’Tis true,” she began hesitantly, as she always was when sharing her history. “Loneliness is a part of living away from civilization, I would presume,” her eyes turned to the path briefly. “’Twere times when the wilds called to me, however, to help in the ease of the loneliness I felt in Flemeth’s household.”

Leliana merely nodded. An accomplished storyteller, the bard knew very well how to keep another on their tale. Silent, yet encouraging. Again she nodded, a small smile upon her lips as Morrigan continued.

“I can somewhat understand the mage back a ways,” she continued, her eyes darting back toward the mad man’s campsite, now fully out of sight. “Many were the times I felt as he must. Alone, no other than Flemeth, a mad woman in her own right, to speak with.” There was a gentle shrug of her slender shoulders, a slight ruffling of the feathers adorning her left shoulder. “I would take animal form and run the wilds when the feeling of loneliness would overtake me, but,” here her eyes settled upon Leliana’s face, and the bard turned her bright blues to the intense yellow of her companion. “Never was the loneliness overtaken and removed.”

Leliana smiled softly. “To take animal form,” the bard breathed. “Must be so exciting. To run wild with the wolves, soar high above the ground as a raven,” her eyes took a slightly mischievous look to them. “To terrorize as a spider!”

Morrigan chuckled slightly at that, her countenance softening even further. “Yes, indeed,” she admitted. “But to talk with one who is of your own species…that has proven to be the far better gift I have thus received in this misadventure Mother set me upon.”

A true smile graced the woman’s face, and Leliana felt certain she had never seen anything - anyone - as beautiful. Feeling her heart pounding desperately in her chest, her breath held with a slight catch, the bard smiled warmly, putting an arm around Morrigan’s shoulders. She was pleased that the witch did not seek to pull away, but seemed to move closer somewhat to the touch.

“With this group,” the bard whispered smugly. “You never need fear being alone again, Morrigan.” They stopped, blue eyes holding yellow. Leliana saw the uncertainly in the witch’s eyes. “We are all your friends,” the bard pressed, tightening her hold slightly. “I, most especially.”

A plump lip caught between her lips in an unconscious imitation of the elf who led this rag tag group, Morrigan nodded, and then, with a slight awareness of how close the two of them were, ducked slightly from under the arm draped across her shoulders. Straightening her shoulders and spine, the witch smirked at the bard, and together they resumed their pace, easily catching up with the two men ahead.

DA:O

This just had to be the craziest day Alistair had ever experienced. Craziest, most tiring, and completely off the walls bonkers of a day.

And he had thought that before they arrived at the small glen and now faced a talking, walking, rhyming white oak.

“Hrrrrm... what manner of beast be thee that comes before this elder tree?" the massive tree rumbled, arm like branches wavering slightly as the massive creature loomed over the group.

“Ah,” Alistair stuttered, completely thrown off. “I’m Alistair, a human and a Grey Warden.”

Morrigan chuckled behind him, and he heard Leliana twitter somewhat at his expense. He almost could have sworn the Sten chuckled somewhat behind the group, but Alistair was not about to turn his attention from the swaying oak to check.

After several minutes of speaking with the tree, it was learned that the mad mage they had encountered earlier that day had stolen an acorn from the massive oak. Insisting that without it the rhyming oak would perish, the group agreed to attempt to recover it for the ancient and unusual creature. In return, the ancient oak promised assistance in gaining entrance to the Forest’s core.

Before leaving, Alistair just could not resist and had to ask why the tree rhymed all its conversations.

"I do not know, why dost thou not? Thy words seem plain, a mundane lot. Perhaps a poet's soul's in me... Does that make me a poet tree?" At this the companions - even the Sten - chuckled at its reply.

And so, without so much as a grumble, the group turned back to head eastwards, to return to the crazy old man who stole an oak’s acorn.

DA:O

This is just nuts, Alistair thought as he stared at the old mage, who was tossing roots and leaves into the air, grumbling about ‘them’ and how ‘they’ would never find him. In mid toss the mad man noticed the return of the companions, and greeted them with a scowl.

“What? What?” he whined, “Why have you returned?” His eyes narrowed. “Ah, they’ve sent you, didn’t they? They think they’ve won, but I’ll never reveal anything! Nothing! You hear?!”

“Calm down, good sir,” Leliana’s soothing voice rose above the man’s tirade. Snapping his attention to the lovely red head, his eyes widened slightly.

“Oh, ho!” he chuckled, stepping closer to the pretty girl, “So, they think that a pretty girl could gain my knowledge, eh?” his eyes narrowed again as he spat at Leliana. “Never!”

Deciding to take control (and save Leliana from further abuse from the mad man) Alistair took hold of the mage’s arm and pulled him away from the bard. “Ho, good sir,” he said, affectively regaining the mad man’s attentions. Frowning slightly, knowing that a direct course of action would not work with the fellow, he asked, “Would you happen to have anything to trade?”

Here the man’s eyes lit up, and he chortled with glee. “Trade? Trade, you say?” He pranced away, giggling. “Ah, I do have items to trade. Let’s see,” he stopped, tapping a dirty forefinger along his whiskered chin. “I have an old helmet, a book I finished reading a long time ago, and an acorn.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “What do you have to trade?”

Frowning, Alistair replied, “I have coin…” but the old man cut him off.

“Coin? Coin!” he shrieked, resuming his gallivanting. “What use have I for coin here in the Forest?” He paused, glaring at the younger man. “What else have you for trade?”

Alistair frowned, trying to perform a mental inventory of the items he had on him. They had traveled light, leaving much of the unnecessary items back at the Dalish camp. The only thing he had that the old man may find interesting was a small griffon pendant Adela had carved shortly after Ostagar. The young Warden was loath to give up such a lovely item, especially one created by Adela’s hands. However, they needed to complete their mission, which was paramount to gaining entrance to the center of the Forest, where the werewolves were laired. With a heavy sigh, the young warden reached for the chain that hung for his neck, and started pulling the amulet free.

It was Leliana, who was watching his face and could only hazard a guess at the inner struggle Alistair was having, that saved the day. Pulling forth a slender book from her pack, she handed it to the male mage for his inspection.

“This, my friend, is a book of Orlesian poetry,” she advised as she watched with a slight tinge of apprehension as the man’s dirty hands grasped the book and started flipping through the pages.

The mage’s face softened, the fine lines evening out. His eyes seemed to focus upon the words written so neatly upon the parchment of the book, and it was with near reverence that he spoke. “This…this will do quite nicely, my dear.” The companions were surprised to note the near sane level his voice had taken, and Leliana gasped and smiled as the mage raised clear brown eyes to hers. “What is it you wish to trade this for?”

She asked for the acorn, and the mage gladly handed it over to her. With a final nod, the man turned from the group, settling himself down beside the cold fire pit to begin reading the treasure that had been handed to him. Giving the bard a thankful smile, Alistair turned around to lead the group back westwards to return to the ancient oak his long lost acorn.

DA:O

To say that the Ancient Oak (as the companions were now calling the sentient tree) was pleased would have been an understatement. Alistair was certain the creature would dance for joy. No, wait, it was dancing! A grin crossed the tired man’s face as he watched the tree cradle the long lost acorn before tucking it in amidst the many branches and leaves that formed its haloed head. As a reward, the tree plucked a branch free of its head, passing it down to the young warden. Alistair heard Morrigan gasp behind him and he handed it back to her, thanking the tree profusely.

"I wish thee well, my mortal friend. Thou brought my sadness to an end! May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong." This final was spoken with a branch hand placed over its trunk, the halo of leaves bowing in respect.

With a final word of thanks, Alistair turned to lead the group back southwards, hoping to find the Forest’s center before too much more time was lost.

DA:O

Adela stared at the werewolf, who begged upon her knees for the elven warden to end her life. Despair filled the young elf’s heart; she had no desire to end the life of the werewolf - whose name was Danyla and was a member of Zathrian’s clan. But, she could see the former elf’s suffering, and that pained her greatly.

“Please, Danyla,” the elven Warden begged, grasping the claws that had once been slender elven hands. “Come back to the camp with us. We are searching for a cure…”

The elf-turned-werewolf snarled, pushing the city-born elf back. “You seek to destroy Witherfang!” she snarled, rising to her feet, towering over the tiny elf. “But, I know the truth!” The snarl turned into a yelp of pain, and, grasping her head, the werewolf fell once again to her knees. “Please end this!” she pleaded, her voice breaking with the anguish rumbling in her head, her eyes closed against the agony.

Niall stepped forward and pulled Adela back. Roland and Zevran watched the werewolf with wary eyes, blades naked in their hands, ready to deal the killing blow. Eyeing the werewolf, the mage spoke. “I can put her in a suspended state,” he whispered to the elf, wincing at the look of hope that sprang to her bluest of eyes. “If we can find a place to set her where she would be safe, we can complete our mission. If what the Keeper told us is true, then with Witherfang’s death, she should revert back to her normal state.”

“Can you truly do this, Niall?” she asked, hope strong in her voice. The mage nodded his shaggy head, allowing a comforting smile to cross his face. “Okay,” Adela said as she stepped back to Danyla.

“Danyla,” she got the werewolf’s attention. “We can help you,” she waved toward Niall. “We can put you into a magical sleep, and, once we find the cure, you should return to your true form.” Adela cocked her head to the side as she watched Danyla’s head raise, a look of hope shining in those predator eyes.

“You can do that?” she asked, unconsciously echoing Adela’s own questions, hope giving life to her voice. Niall nodded.

After a moment’s thought, the werewolf agreed. She would first take them through the Forest’s center, however, leading them to the werewolves’ lair. Thanking her, the group followed the Dalish werewolf toward the center of the Forest, closer to the lair of the werewolves.

DA:O

Thanks to their werewolf guide, the group managed to penetrate to the center of the forest, and stood before the crumbling ruins of an ancient fortress. They located a hidden alcove, Niall cast his spell, placing the Dalish werewolf under a strong sleep enchantment. Assuring Adela that Danyla would not awaken until they return, or until several days had passed should they fail, Niall tucked several blankets around and over the slumbering werewolf.

Satisfied to the werewolf’s safety, the elven Warden led the group into the ruins.

DA:O

The group had not traveled far into the ruins when they were accosted by a band of werewolves. These seemed more intelligent, calmer than those they had encountered in the woods. As the five took firm battle stances, they were amazed as the group of no less than a dozen werewolves parted, allowing the form of a huge, white wolf to pass between them. The intelligence of the beast shone through large, black eyes, and the creature stopped to stand directly in front of Adela. The beast was so large it stood shoulder to shoulder with the small elven warden, its dark eyes gazing deeply into Adela’s blues. One of the werewolves, a large, brown specimen with several scars criss-crossing his face, moved forward, bending to one knee.

“If you would parlay,” the werewolf replied in a smooth, rumbling voice, “we bid you follow us.” The beast raised his head, gazing with reverence at the white wolf standing before the elf.

Behind her, she could sense the tensing of her companions. Her blue eyes left the serene black orbs of the gorgeous creature standing before her, turning to watch the werewolves blocking their entrance. Each beast stood at the ready, yet none gave off an appearance of violence or menace. They were merely awaiting her reply.

Without looking at her companions, Adela nodded her head. The werewolves turned as a one, and the white wolf took its place beside the elf, matching her stride for stride as the five companions were led deeper into the ruins.

DA:O

Alistair’s group found the Forest’s center, and was amazed when they were allowed to pass through undeterred. Ever wary, eyes wide and scanning the area around them, the group of four made their way through the littered courtyard of the ancient fortress, pressing forward to the crumbling ruins. They were especially anxious for any sign that Adela and her group had passed this way, but could find nothing with which to reassure themselves. Staring at the ruins with frustration, the young Warden led his fellows into the remains of a once great structure.

They were surprised at the lack of werewolf encounters. However, their passage through the crumbling ruins was not unhindered. Every corridor, every room they entered seemed teeming with undead and giant spiders. In one chamber they had found a Soul Gem containing the ancient spirit of an elven Arcane Warrior. Morrigan was fascinated with the spirit and, after conversing quietly with it, determined that they should allow the soul trapped within its rest. In exchange, the spirit imparted its arcane knowledge to the witch, giving her the knowledge to tap into the magic that would allow her - or another mage of her teaching - to use weapons and armor as a warrior. Feeling revitalized, eager to test her knew knowledge, Morrigan placed the gem upon a nearby altar, setting it into an impression upon its surface. With a twist, the gem shattered, releasing the spirit and allowing it to find its final rest.

It was the encounter with the small dragon that nearly sent the group racing back out of the ruins. It wasn’t the dragon so much as the many firetraps set haphazardly upon the floor that caused the greatest consternation for the companions. Remarkably, the dragon herself was easily vanquished…once Leliana had opportunity to disable the traps.

A hole in the far wall connected the entrance of the ruins to the main, central portion. More undead, more spiders, but still no werewolves. The companions were beginning to believe that they were in the wrong area. Shouldn’t they have encountered at least one of the ravening beasts if they had invaded their home?

Deciding they had wasted enough time, the companions decided they needed to turn around and head back out of the ruins. This was obviously not where they needed to be.

DA:O

They were deep underground. Of that, Adela was certain. Her friends warily watched each of the exits, sizing up their werewolf opponents should the parlay she had agreed to turn into a heated battle. Niall, as was his habit, pressed himself closer to the elven Warden. She could feel his defensive magic crackling, pulling her into his orbit. She watched, fascinated, as the huge white wolf’s form changed, growing taller, slender, bipedal, and forming into the curves and lines of a beautiful human-like woman. Human-like, save for those penetrating black eyes and twigs and roots encircling most of her body and limbs.

In an eerie voice of whispers and shadows, winds and echoes, the creature before them introduced herself as the Lady of the Forest, a spirit of the woods. Gatekeeper, the werewolf that had offered them the parlay, explained that it was she that had taken in the werewolves, offering them something other than violence and a near insensitive existence. When Zevran pointed out that many of the werewolves they had encountered seemed brainless, vicious animals, Swiftrunner, the obvious leader of the lycanthropes, explained that those who dwelled on the outskirts of the Forest had fallen ill. It was when the illness had struck that their efforts to contact Zathrian in hopes of ending the curse had redoubled, creating the need to ambush them and infect as many of the Dalish as possible.

This confused Adela. “Why would you need to contact Zathrian regarding this curse?” she asked.

The Lady bowed her dark head, her eyes glittering beneath long lashes. “It was Zathrian who had created the curse those centuries before,” she explained in that otherworldly voice of hers.

Swiftrunner stepped forward. “Centuries ago, this part of the Forest was inhabited by humans.” he lifted his shaggy head to peer squarely into Adela’s eyes. “When Zathrian’s clan had traveled in these parts, the humans hunted them. During one of these hunts, they had captured Zathrian’s young son and daughter.” the werewolf paused, placing a great clawed hand to his forehead. When he spoke again, there was no mistaking the pain and anguish in his voice. “The boy they killed, after torturing him.” The werewolves around their leader bowed their heads, growling at their own history. “The girl, they raped, left for dead.” One werewolf in the back raised his head to howl. The others, Gatekeeper and Swiftrunner included, bowed their heads, eyes closed tight.

The Lady stepped in to finish. “Zathrian and his clan found the children. The boy they buried not far from where this ruin stands. The girl,” her own voice stumbled a bit as she recalled that painful part. “found herself pregnant with a human’s get. She killed herself.”

“And so Zathrian created the curse for vengeance,” Adela put in, hoping to forestall more of the painful history for these suddenly gentle seeming creatures.

“He bound a mischievous spirit with the soul of a great wolf,” the forest spirit explained. “And set it loose against the human settlements of the forest. All of the human settlements.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “The humans fled. Those who were afflicted with the curse remained. These that stand before you are their progeny.”

“The white wolf was Witherfang, wasn’t it?” Niall asked quietly. The Lady nodded her head. “And so you are the spirit bound to Witherfang,” the mage concluded.

“In a way, yes,” The Lady agreed. “Witherfang and I are now bound to one another. Our own previous temperaments have bonded, flowing into one another until our personalities cannot be distinguished from one or the other. And we both wish an end to the curse. To see our afflicted brethren freed from this half-existence they have been forced into.”

“By sheer accident of birth,” Zevran muttered, his tawny eyes darkened with pity for the plight of these creatures.

“So, what can be done?” Adela asked, trying to push for a resolution.

“Only one thing must occur.” The Lady lifted her head. “Zathrian must end the curse. Only he can do so. Once that is done, these poor creatures will assume the forms they were meant to be born to - those of human. Those elves afflicted will resume their natural forms.” The Lady’s eyes hardened, her face stern. “It is the only way. Otherwise, Zathrian’s people will either transform or die. And these creatures will continue to harangue them until death.”

Her own features resolved, Adela declared. “Then we will get Zathrian and make him remove the curse.” With those words, she turned on her heal, and headed back the way they had come from. Their own strides telling the elf they agreed with her decision, the others followed after.

DA:O

Alistair was surprised when he spotted Zathrian rounding the bend just into the fortress’s courtyard. The group had been exploring the area, trying to find another entrance or building where the werewolves’ lair would be. He noted that the Keeper’s ageless face wore an expression of confusion as well.

“Zathrian,” the human warden greeted as he approached the elder elf. The Keeper bowed his head slightly.

“May I ask why you are out here and not within the ruins?” the elven Keeper asked, his voice low, tone condescending.

“Quite honestly,” Alistair admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a gauntleted hand, “we’re not certain that we’re where we’re supposed to be.” He pointedly ignored Leliana’s giggle at his statement.

The Keeper shook his head. “You are, indeed, where the beasts lair,” he advised, frowning, looking around. “Where is the rest of your party?”

Alistair shrugged, trying to keep a rein over his growing concern for Adela and the others. “We managed to break through the barrier with the aid of an Ancient Oak,” he advised the Keeper as Morrigan pulled free the staff the rhyming oak had given them. With interest, the elven mage took the staff from the witch as Alistair continued. “But, we haven’t seen any indication that the others have arrived here.”

The frown upon Zathrian’s face deepened. “They have been here, Warden,” he advised as he turned around and started walking back toward the barrier mists. Closing his eyes, he concentrated. With a short sigh, he turned back, handing the staff to the witch.

“Your staff did not cause the barrier to fall,” he stated, tapping a long tapered finger upon his chin. “It had been down when you arrived.”

“How can you tell?” the ex-templar asked, frowning.

“There are certain…signatures that magical items bear. The signature that felled the barrier does not match the one of the staff.” His frown deepened into a scowl. “It was the magic of the lycanthropic curse that caused the barrier to drop. I believe your fellow Warden was with the werewolf that caused it to fall.”

“So that means, Adela and the others are here somewhere!” Alistair exclaimed, swinging himself about to stare into the dark shadows surrounding the ruins.

“Indeed,” the Keeper agreed. “Let us go within. Perhaps we will find your wayward companions and sort out the circumstances of their entry herein.”

DA:O

It was in the main entry chamber when Adela and her group reunited with Alistair and the others. Adela eyed Zathrian with something close to suspicion, and the Keeper did not hide his own disdain for the city born elf. Pulling Alistair aside, Adela quietly explained to her second her conversation with the werewolves and the Lady. The human warden let his breath out in a long, low whistle, but agreed with her wholeheartedly that they obviously did not have the entire story. An agreement reached, the two wardens informed their companions and the Dalish Keeper that they would return to the werewolves and the Lady to discuss their options. The tone made it painfully clear to Zathrian that they would brook no argument from him.

DA:O

She could not believe it. They had managed to convince Zathrian to end the curse without a fight. Adela was somewhat surprised, however, when she realized she was saddened that both Zathrian and the Lady would need to give up their existences in order to save those afflicted by the curse. She had found the Dalish Keeper to be sanctimonious and as bigoted as any human she had ever met. Yet, while she understood his pain, his desire for revenge was clearly beyond her. It was the Lady she felt most compassionate for. She had obviously taken her role in the corruption quite strongly and had sought any and all means to make amends for her part in the curse, however unwilling that part may have been.

As the final shreds of life evaporated from the Dalish mage and the forest spirit, the werewolves before them transformed, taking on the human forms they should have been born to. Adela was a little surprised to note several elves in the back of the group, confirming that many from the clan had been affected. Swiftrunner and Gatekeeper each gave their personal thanks to the elven warden, deciding to leave the forest and form their own community. They felt it wise to get as far from the Dalish as possible.

So, leading a small band of renewed elves, the group left the ruins.

They found Danyla sitting upon the ground near where they had left her, once again restored to her true elven form, her lovely, tattooed face beaming with renewed health. When she spotted Adela, she leaped to her feet, pulling the younger woman into a tight embrace, thanking her for her life and those of her clan. Smiling, the elven warden returned the Dalish hunter’s hug. Danyla then went to each member of Adela’s group, giving them a hug (or, in the case of Hafter a pat on the head). She then turned to Alistair and his party and bowed her thanks to them for their part in ending the curse.

As the Forest no longer strove to work against them, the journey back to the Dalish encampment took far less time than it had in reaching the forest’s center. It was to a relieved Lanaya that the group returned to. As the new Keeper, Lanaya officially pronounced that not only would her clan assist against the Blight, but any others she could contact would offer their aid as well. The cheerful young Keeper pulled Adela aside, promising to send a messenger to her mother’s clan and offering a formal introduction once they had gathered. Smiling, thanking her profusely, Adela turned back to her party.

Danyla reunited with her husband, who was flabbergasted by the sight of his beautiful wife. To Varathorn Adela gave the ironbark she had found in the forest, refusing any kind of a reward, insisting that every piece be put to use for the armament of the Dalish warriors, although she did ask for permission to trade with him. The Dalish artisan readily agreed. The master craftsman watched as the elf studied many of his crafts.

“You are a craftswoman yourself,” the Dalish remarked. Adela nodded, pulling from her pouch the carving she had been working on for Roland. The craftsman of the Dales ran experienced fingers over the relief, smiling and nodding at the quality of the work. “You are quite talented,” he praised, smiling as the girl before him blushed. “Perhaps, once the Blight has been taken care of, you would do me the honor of allowing me to train you in the working of ironbark?”

Gasping her surprise, the young elf gave the elder a firm hug, declaring she would be the honored one. Grinning at her enthusiasm, Varathorn turned back to his bench, running his hands over the ironbark the elven Warden had acquired for him.

　
DA:O

After all errands had been completed, Adela and her fellows set up their camp within the Dalish encampment. As the day turned towards dusk, Alistair, dressed comfortably in a tunic and breeches, searched out his friend, finding her staring at the majestic white deer-like animals grazing peacefully within an open pen. He noted that the pouch and wooden case she carried her art supplies in sat upon the ground beside her.

“Hallas,” the elf said as the human warden sat down next to her. “I had never hoped to see one in life,” the elf said, her eyes never leaving the beautiful creatures. “I feel so very blessed to be able to witness their grace and beauty.”

Alistair watched as an almost childlike expression of joy crossed the elf’s pretty face. Smiling, he bent near, his breath tickling her delicately pointed ear as he whispered, “I know exactly what you mean.”

Surprised, blinking, the elf turned towards the young man, suddenly aware of just how close he sat and how close his face was to hers. With a soft gasp, she pulled back, her eyes turning back to watch the hallas as they pranced about their pen.

A gentle smile crossed Alistair’s lips as he bent his head down, his lips lightly brushing against hers, then pulled back to look into her face. Adela sighed at the touch and at his release, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. His own heart beating strongly in his chest, he again bent down and gently covered her mouth with his, his tongue sweeping out, lightly brushing her lips, encouraging them to open to him. Deepening the kiss, he brought one hand behind her head, the other arm sloping over her shoulder and down her back. He marveled at how delicate she felt in his arms, how she tasted of mint and honey, her smell of sweet fern. The lips beneath his opened slightly, and began to return pressure, assuring him he had not gone too far, that this woman he had come to care so much for had some feelings for him. But, he could still sense her hesitancy, so he pursued further, his tongue seeking deeper admittance to her mouth, his hold on her tightening and seeking to pull her yet further into his body.

Then, with a sigh, Adela drew back, away from his lips, pushing lightly on his chest. Reluctantly, he released her, gazing down into her down turned face, watching as she bit her lower lip. Her face was flushed, an attractive pink touched her cheeks, chin and the very tips of her ears. He gently brushed at the one of those tips, peeking out from the mass of blonde hair she had left loose that evening. She swallowed, and then looked up into his face, a shy smile upon her lips.

“I missed you,” the young warden admitted, smiling as she looked up into his face. “And, you were just sitting here, looking so angelic. I found myself unable to resist.” He smiled hopefully at her. “Am I forgiven?”

Giggling slightly, the elven lass nodded her blond head. “Forgiven, Alistair.” She was biting her lower lip, her eyes twinkling. “I missed you, too.”

A goofy grin crossing his face, Alistair placed an arm around Adela, pulling her close. He nearly shouted for joy when he felt her head rest easily and comfortably against his shoulder. Tomorrow they would need to resume their trek to continue their search for the Sacred Ashes. Tonight, Alistair was content to sit with the woman he loved as they watched the elven mounts romp about the pen.

[SheilaD67]

Okay, let’s get this out of the way: It is my greatest wish that I owned everything pertaining to Dragon Age. Unfortunately, such is not my lot in life. It all belongs to BioWare. *sighs* So, there you have it. All that is mine really is just Adela and this storyline.

Thanks to everyone for reading, alerting, favoriting and, especially, reviewing: mutive, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin.

This is a very short chapter. I didn’t think that this scene should be included with any other, but at least the next chapter branches from this. It’s a naughty dream…ahm… NSFW…first time writing something so…well, sexy (ha! I hope that its sexy).
 
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 27

　
Adela looked over at the peaceful scene, smiling as she recognized the area she found herself in. Although she had never visited Loghain’s teyrnir, she recognized it from his descriptions and from books she had read.

Standing atop a rolling hillock, she could see small farms dotting the landscape, giving way to the great forests of oak and other hardwoods that bordered the southernmost teyrnir of Gwaren. Turning to the west, she could see the small harbor the encircled part of the town that gave the teyrnir its name.

She smoothed her hands over the silk of her dress, fingering the delicate material lightly with long fingers. She missed the small niceties of not living one’s life from a back pack: the frequent hot baths, being able to wear dresses and not always being prepared for battle at every moment; not having to worry about where the next meal would come from or if those that she cared for would be ambushed and slaughtered by darkspawn, bandits or assassins at every turn. With a sigh she shielded her eyes with one hand, glanced up at the sunny sky.

She never knew where her dreams would place her, but this was a different scenery altogether. Its location made her wonder if she would be visiting her usual dreamtime companion.

A smirk crossed her face as she stepped lightly over the ground, her feet bare, the grass tickling the soles of her feet. She had long ceased being amazed at the intensity of her dreams, of just how real they felt. While they traveled in the Brecilian Forests, these dreams had become more frequent and astonishing vivid - she could feel every breeze as it swept over her skin and through her hair, the coolness of water on her fingertips; she could smell every odor, taste any taste. She wondered if, once they left the confines of the mysterious, ancient forest, if those dreams would cease in their frequency.

Well, until they encountered another veil thinned area.

Warm breezes gusted through her long hair, hanging loose down her back, causing it to dance lightly about her shoulders. Standing upon the summit of the hillock, she gazed about her. Her attention turned to the ground, her brow furrowing with concentration. A blanket appeared and she grinned as she settled upon it, lying back with her arms crossed under her head as she closed her eyes to enjoy the quiet and gentle breeze.

A familiar voice, low and rumbling, came to her ears, and she opened her eyes, gazing up at the intruder. “I was wondering if you were going to make an appearance,” Loghain grumbled, his eyes hard, his mouth a firm line of irritation.

Smiling up at him, the elven woman pushed herself into a seated position. “Really?” she asked, brushing the skirts of her dress. “Maybe it is yourself that is making the appearance.” She tilted her head at him. “After all, this is my dream.”

Loghain snorted at the girl as he moved to block the sunlight from her face. “Do you often dream of Gwaren?” he asked, with the barest hint of amusement in his dry voice.

Shrugging, Adela replied, “I don’t normally pick where my dreams are set,” she replied, frowning up at him. “And you are blocking my sunlight.” She waved a small hand. “Either sit down or leave, Loghain. I am trying to enjoy whatever moments of peace I can find.”

A scowl threatened to form upon his face, and Adela was certain that Loghain would simply leave her in peace. She was somewhat surprised, pleasantly so, when, with a snort, he settled himself down upon the blanket, one leg bent at the knee with the other straight in front of him, an arm resting upon the bent knee. She quirked a brow at him, and he mirrored the gesture.

“Hmmm,” the elf hummed, “I would have thought you would leave.”

“Why ever for?” the Teyrn asked, frowning deeply. “And where would I go?”

There was a shrug of one lithe shoulder. “Back to your room, I would think,” she smirked up at the taller human. “I figured that was where you existed, after all.”

“I was in my room,” Loghain replied, a bit of irritation bleeding into his voice. “But then I found myself here,” he swept one large hand over the scene of the hillock and valley. “Must be your doing, I suppose.”

Grinning at him, the elf responded with a hint of mischief in her voice. “Must be.”

Silence took over, and Adela bent her knees and rested her head upon her crossed arms, her eyes closed. Loghain sat, watching the young elf. She could feel those penetrating eyes upon her. With a soft sigh, she lifted her head to look at the dream version of the man she had known.

“What?” she asked, trying to hide the slight irritation she felt at his brooding presence.

A black brow quirked upwards at the irritation he heard in her soft voice. “I’m wondering why it is that you have not asked about…” he faltered here, seeming unsure how to proceed.

“About what?” she asked, laying her head upon her arms once again, unconcerned with seeming rude to this apparition. Loghain shifted on the blanket, and she looked up to see him very close to her, his ice blue eyes fixed upon her face.

“The kiss, you foolish chit,” he grumbled, his scowl deepening. “And the talk that never occurred.”

She blinked rapidly at the man. The kiss they had shared in Loghain’s tent back at Ostagar sometimes haunted her dreams, and she often mourned the lost opportunity to discuss her feelings with the man. She had thought she had put that behind her, however, once she accepted the fact that Loghain had not been the man she had thought he was. Once she began to realize and accept that her feelings for another were growing.

But, this was a dream, and no true answers would ever be found therein. No consequences to answer for. So, she decided to take advantage and speak her thoughts, safe that there would be no cost, no awkwardness to endure afterwards.

Leaning back on her elbows, her legs straightening out, she tilted her head coquettishly. She was surprised when she noticed the slight darkening of Loghain’s pale blue eyes as they skimmed over her form.

“Not that I’ve had much experience,” the elf began, her heart skipping a beat when those eyes settled upon her face. “But that kiss we shared in your tent was perhaps the most wondrous kiss I have ever, or will ever, experience.” Despite the knowledge this was a mere dream, Adela could feel her face heat up at that admission.

The throat muscles of Loghain’s neck worked themselves, and he managed to ask, “And the discussion that never was?”

“How would that have gone?” Adela asked back, frowning, closing her eyes. “I used to dream that during that conversation you would declare your love for me.” The frown deepened and her eyes opened. “But, that was a silly girlish dream, which could never and would never come true.” She shrugged again. “That dream nearly cost me when I was trapped in the Fade several months ago, before I learned how to control the environment of the Fade.” She opened her eyes, looking hard into Loghain’s unreadable face. “You called me a foolish chit. Perhaps I was. I can no longer afford such silliness.” Pulling herself up, she rose, walking away from Loghain, her back to him.

The elf stood there for a moment before she heard the man behind her rise. She could feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. Her pulse quickened when he placed his hands upon her shoulders, pulling her against him, his face bent to the top of her head. “Why do you wear that dress whenever you come to me in the dreams?” he asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

Her heart beat hard and fast, and she found herself pressing against the solid muscle of his body. Moving her head, she looked up into his face. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I think I just want to hold onto some part of what my life was before Vaughan, before the Blight became such a defining factor of my life.” She turned around, his hands remaining on her shoulders, and she let herself raise a hand to his finely sculpted face.

Icy blue eyes warmed as they closed, and she felt Loghain press his face firmly into her hand. The hands upon her shoulders shifted, moving down her back, pulling her closer to him. Loghain’s eyes opened, and he brought his face down, his mouth slanting over her own, covering it with heated passion. Raising her arms, she slipped them about his neck, twisting her long fingers into the silken mass of his hair as the man pulled her up into his arms, holding her slender body against his own, his hands running down her back, to the base of her buttocks. The kiss intensified, and she opened her mouth, slipping her tongue out, sweeping over Loghain’s lips, tasting him. Growling with passion, Loghain swept her into his arms, carrying her back to the blanket, where he gently laid her down. Their kisses increased in passion and heat, and Loghain settled himself just slightly over the side of her.

One large, calloused hand slipped over her breast, gently rubbing it through the silken material of her dress. Adela moaned in his mouth, and he increased the attention to her breast, his fingers circling over the hardened nipple. The elf raised her hips, pressing them against the human’s, and she felt the evidence of his arousal though the linen trousers he wore. Breaking the kiss, she stared up into Loghain’s face, feeling the heat of her lips tingling, her cheeks flushed with heat.

One of Loghain’s hands slipped behind her, raising her slightly as he unlaced the back of her dress. She shivered as his hand caressed the naked skin of her back before the hand raised to her shoulder, pulling the dress down, exposing her breasts to him. She fought against the feeling of embarrassed shyness. This was her dream, after all. This was something she had wondered about many times. That it felt so real now made her shiver in anticipation.

Loghain resumed kissing the young woman, kissing lightly along her lips, her high cheekbones, and down her jaw. His tongue slipped out to taste the naked skin of her neck, and the elf moaned deeper, pressing her body against him again as his fingers resumed their teasing of her breasts, pinching at the already taut pink nipples. Licking and kissing his way down the slender column of her neck and throat, teeth scraped along her collar bone before he took one hardened nipple into his mouth, his tongue lavishing gentle attention around the areola, his lips caressing the soft flesh of her small, rounded breast.

A tight warmth grew in her lower belly, spreading downwards, and she could feel the moisture form between her legs. Surprising herself with the passion she felt, Adela moaned loudly, pulling her hands up to unlace her lover’s tunic. Lifting his face from her, Loghain assisted in removing the shirt, tossing it away as he moved back to tease her breast with tongue, lips and teeth.

The growl of appreciation that rose in his throat pleased the elf as her hands roamed down his body to rub against the hard outline of his arousal. She cried out, her back arching, pressing her hips firmer into his own, as his teeth bit down on one sensitive nipple then lightly sucked on it, lathing it with his tongue, before applying the same attention to the other. Almost of its own volition, her body ground itself against the man’s clothed erection, pressing her groin against his with abandon.

With a growl, Loghain rose, roughly pulling the dress free from her hips, leaving her clothed only in her smallclothes. She could feel her wetness soak through her underclothes, feel the heat from Loghain’s stare at he took in her flushed body. Rising, she knelt before him, exploring his torso with hands, lips, teeth and tongue. He groaned under the ministrations, capturing her hands and bringing them to laces of his trousers. As her fingers lightly brushed against his erection, he moaned, leaning his head down to her ear, lightly nipping at the sensitive lobe, licking his way to the delicate tip. Her fingers, usually so agile and adept, fumbled with the lacings of his pants as she cried out, arching her body as a new wave of pleasure swept over her, pressing her naked breasts to his well muscled chest. She could feel his heartbeat, strong, fast, unsteady, as it matched her own.

Finally undoing the stubborn laces, Adela pulled the trousers past Loghain’s slender hips, pushing them down his thighs, freeing his erect manhood. She gasped at the sight of it and had a moment’s worry of just what she was to do with that. The man gave her no more time for thought as he swept her up, and back down onto her back, kicking his pants off the rest of the way. Quickly, he untied the lacings holding her small clothes together, and then pulled them free of her body, leaving her naked before him.

Trembling with passion and a little fear, Adela raised her darkened eyes to Loghain. Her heart beat rapidly and unsteadily, echoing in her head, and she bit down on her swollen lower lip. Loghain’s hands brushed lightly over her body, resting upon her hips. He looked her in the eyes, leaning down to capture her lips with his. As he pulled away, his hands resumed their exploration of her slender body. “I love you, Adela,” he whispered hoarsely to her, his pale blue eyes searching her face, but she could not tell what he was looking for.

Taking in a deep breath, she raised a hand back to his face, tracing over his brow, cheekbones, and then across his lips. “I love you, too, Loghain,” she whispered with passionate fervor, knowing that this was just a dream, something she had yearned for and knew she could never have, that she could awaken, leaving behind her dream lover. Raising her face she captured his lips with her own.

Loghain pressed her back down, his mouth trailing kisses down her face and neck, between her breasts, to her stomach and lower. She gasped loudly as he made his way through the damp golden curls over her womanhood, his tongue flicking her swollen nub, his hands on each hip. As his tongue found her spot, her hips jerked upwards, a cry escaping her lips. He eased her thighs apart further, his head dipping lower as his tongue traced over her folds. A hiss breathed out from between her lips, expanding into a cry as his tongue ceased the teasing of her nub and folds, and plunged deeply into her core. His large hands encircled her bottom, holding her in place as he worked tongue and mouth onto her most sensitive area, riding out her bucking and thrusts. Grasping her breasts, plucking at her sensitive buds, she arched her back, pleading words and crying out his name as he continued to bring her to completion.

She felt his tongue pull out of her, lapping at her in deep, long strokes as his mouth worked at her nub once more. Her body relaxed somewhat, her breaths coming in panting gasps. Smiling, wiping her juices from his face, Loghain kissed his way back up her body, stopping at her lips, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She tasted the tanginess of her own juices and found herself strangely aroused by that. Pressing his legs between hers, he pushed her legs further apart as he rested at the junction of her thighs.

Gazing down at her, Loghain again said, “I love you,” and kissed her again. Her hands rose to travel along his strong, broad shoulders. She could feel the head of his erection at her entrance, and she felt her body stiffen somewhat. There was a look of concern upon Loghain’s face, but she smiled up at him, kissing him passionately, her tongue slipping into his willing mouth. Reaching down, she grasped him in her hand, her thumb rubbing up the hard length of him, smiling into his mouth as he moaned at her touch. Lifting her hips, she helped to guide him to her entrance, pressing her mouth against his harder. She felt a hand settle along her lower back, and, in one quick thrust, Loghain buried himself deeply into the slender elf.

A cry rose from her lips, her head tossed back as her back arched. Loghain began thrusting into her slowly, his lips and teeth kissing and nipping her jaw line and lips, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, teasing her tongue as his thrusts grew in urgency and speed. Moaning together, they whispered each other’s names, promises of love tumbling from kiss swollen lips. Soon, words were lost as they were driven deeper into a passionate frenzy, Loghain’s hips pushing harder into Adela’s as she rose to meet each thrust with her own as he invaded deeper into her body. With a growl, Loghain’s body tensed as he released his seed deeply into Adela’s body. She gasped, pushing herself sharply against him as she met her own climax, her body shuddering against his, her sex tightening along his length.

Breathing heavily, Loghain pulled himself free of Adela, moving off her as not to crush her smaller body beneath his. Her lips were parted slightly, her body flushed and sweaty from their exertions. He brushed a hand along her face, down her chest, to rest upon her belly, fingers splayed out possessively as he gazed down upon her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she grinned up at him. “This may be just a dream,” she murmured to him as he bent down to kiss her. “But I do love you.”

Loghain murmured into her mouth, pulling back. A slight frown formed on his face as he brushed a roughened hand gently over her face. Lying beside her, he pulled her flush against him, staring down into her beautiful face. “I miss you, Adela,” he admitted, tucking her further against and under him, his chin resting on top of her head, her small hands roaming over his chest and side. She could not see his face, but she could hear the regret and dismay in his voice. Leaning forward, she kissed his broad chest, the springy black curls tickling her nose. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him closely and fiercely, feeling tears prickling at her eyes. Before the setting and Loghain vanished, she murmured. “I miss you, too, Loghain.”

　

[SheilaD67]

Thank you all for the wonderful response to the previous chapter! I’ve seen a lot more favorites and alerts come up. And, as always, I so very much appreciate your reviews: Forestnymphe, CCBug, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, mutive.

The last chapter was rather pivotal - subtly so, I believe. You will see why in this and forthcoming chapters.

Oh, and a little honor paid to Immort’s mod for Ser Gilmore. Kudos to anyone who can guess what it is.

Oh, yeah, and you all know that I don’t own any of this. It’s all BioWare’s baby. So I’ll just sit in my corner, and bemoan my fate to just write my own version.

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 28

　
He lurched up, pulling himself into a seated position. Heart beat strong and fast, and sweat ran down his neck and back. Panting as though from heavy exertion, Loghain brought a hard hand to his face, covering his eyes as he sought to regain his senses. A grimace formed upon his face as he realized the damp mess he had made of his trousers.

He rose from the bed, pulling his soaked clothing from his body as he walked to the water basin across the room. He tossed his soiled clothing to the floor, scowling down at them. He dipped his hands into the basin, and was surprised to find the water cold - icy. A quick glance toward the fireplace told him what he had suspected - the fire was out.

Frowning, he splashed the cold water onto his face, then placed his hands on either side of the bowl, glaring down into the swirling depths of the basin as water dripped from his regal nose. He had such dreams in the past, obviously, but never had he felt so satisfied afterwards, almost the afterglow of lovemaking warm. Usually, he had awoken feeling bereft, needing, anguished and ashamed. He felt none of that now; it almost felt as though he had actually been with her, felt her small, calloused hands upon his body, touched the silky lengths of her hair. He still could feel her body pressed against him, her warmth and softness; smell the sweet fern she used for her hair; her warm, full lips upon his body; the taste of her...with a snarl, he shook himself from his reverie, finished his wash and claimed clean clothing from the nearby wardrobe to cover his body.

He turned toward the table, expecting a repast to have been set, as always had been. He was surprised to find the table bare.

A thoughtful frown formed between his brow, and he settled down onto one of the wooden chairs, glaring at the empty expanse of wood. Normally, whenever he awoken from his Fade prison, a fire would be blazing, hot water provided for bathing, and a hot, complete meal awaiting him. Now, his room was cold, with no food provided.

That meant that his captor had not expected him to awaken as of yet.

With a start, he pushed himself from his seat, advancing upon the door. Of course it was locked. Did he truly think someone as intelligent and thoughtful as Arawn would overlook the slightest possibility of Loghain awaking ahead of schedule?

He resumed his seat, his eyes sharp in thought. So why had he awakened earlier than planned? He could only think it was the dream, so intense with emotion, his regrets and desires overtaking him…he frowned. He wished he understood magic and blood magic in any other terms other than ‘fear’ (and Loghain was one to admit that he feared magic). Could it possibly be that the intensity of his emotions - lust, desire, regret, love - allowed his body to overcome the hold the blood mage had over him? Or could it merely be coincidence that the dream occurred and somehow, for some reason, Arawn’s own concentration had faltered?

Glancing back at the bed, Loghain’s mind sifted through every possibility; always coming back to rest that it was the intensity of his emotions - of seeing her, of being with her - that had broken down the barrier between his spirit and body. Allowing him to once again regain control over himself. He had so long tried to deny just how much he had cared for - no, loved - the elven woman. But, perhaps it was those very same emotions he held for her that was the key to breaking the mage’s hold for good.

For a man who had spent most of his life keeping his emotions in check, hidden away from all peering eyes and unwelcome intrusions being able to call upon those very same emotions would prove…challenging.

His head bowed slightly. And, of course, he was only dealing with the memory of a woman who had perished with the rest of her order at Ostagar. Was he doing her memory a disservice by using her in such a fashion? He shook his head, unable to find any answer the would satisfy both his longing for her and his guilt over even considering using her memory in such a manner.

Expelling a sharp gust of breath, the Teyrn rose to his feet, glancing back at the door. The only thing he knew for certain would be this: Arawn would be watching him more carefully from now on.

DA:O

Adela jerked awake, jolting into an upright position. Sweat beaded down her neck, drenching the cotton nightshirt she wore. Her heart was racing, and she nearly blushed - alone as she was - at the memory of the dream of her and Loghain making love.

She brought a shaking hand up to press against her feverish forehead. With a sorrowful sigh, she brought her head down to her knees, and there, sitting in the darkness, she quietly cried as she thought of what she could never have, and the words that had never been said.

DA:O

Anora stood, staring at the man who wore Cailan’s face. No, not Cailan’s face: Maric’s. And of the other son…Alistair, if she recalled correctly. But where Maric’s face was open, friendly, this man’s held an arrogant expression that seemed to be a permanent feature. The blood red eyes added to the menace of his persona.

She knew the man, but first only as a mage in the service of Howe. Now, he seemed to have free run of the palace, and had even become an advisor to her father.

Her father. She worried over him, and was at the moment fretting. So much so that she missed what Arawn was saying to her.

“Your Majesty?” The mage prompted, his voice smooth, soft, containing only soothing tones. She looked into his eyes and tried to see any humanity within their dark depths. She shuddered at the malevolence she may have imagined she saw there.

Shaking her head, she stuttered out,” I…I apologize, Arawn,” she reached over and gently patted his arm, then turned away from the desk. “What were you saying? Something about the Bannorn?”

Arawn nodded his blond head, his eyes scanning over the figure of the queen who stood before him, her back turned, head bowed slightly. “I am afraid that with the current situation in the Bannorn, we shan’t have enough troops to continue scouring the countryside.” He tilted his head. “I suggest that we pull them in from the farmlands, and concentrate the forces upon bringing the Bannorn into line,” He stepped forward, his chest nearly brushing against her arm. He could feel the shudder course through her, and he quickly suppressed the self-satisfied smile that threatened to cross his lips.

“Have you discussed this with Father, yet?” Anora asked, her exhaustion betrayed in her voice as she turned to study the man before her.

Arawn bowed. “Your father has instructed that I bring matters to your attention as well as his,” the mage smoothly lied. “So that you are aware of every move the regent makes on Fereldan’s behalf.”

Nodding, not quite believing him, but uncertain how else she should proceed, Anora instructed. “Will this not leave the farmlands defenseless against any darkspawn?”

“True,” the mage conceded, “However, while the nobles continue their little war against the crown, manning the farmlands makes no sense as the rest of the country falls down around them.”

Frowning, she could only nod. The only news she ever received came by the hands of Arawn, Howe, or Cauthrien. Whenever she had discussions with her father, they always seem slightly stilted, as though he was speaking from a script. With a heavy sigh, she agreed that the best course of action would be to make certain that the Bannorn placed their forces behind the Crown, especially against the darkspawn. Giving her permission to remove forces from their patrols of the countryside, forcing down the sick feeling rising in her stomach, Anora bade the mage good afternoon.

As Arawn turned to leave, she could not help but notice the slight tensing of his broad shoulders. With a quick nod, the mage stepped from the queen’s chambers, turning northward toward the quarters of the Teyrn.

DA:O

Soft soled boots clapped quietly upon the marble floor with each determined step. A scowl formed on the mage’s normally calm features, and he curtly ordered the guard at Loghain’s door aside. Bowing respectfully, the man stepped to the side, allowing the mage to step passed. With a glare of a red eye, the bastard of Maric stepped through the threshold, into the cool quarters of the Teyrn.

Loghain sat, impassive, upon one of the wooden chairs at the dining table, his icy eyes unreadable, watching the mage as he sauntered into the room. Arawn stood before him, dressed in noble finery, a graceful golden brow raised in faint amusement, while his eyes betrayed the irritation the man obviously felt. A black brow arched upwards in a mirror image of the mage’s gesture. Loghain’s eyes, however, remained cold, offering nothing to the observations of the man before him.

“I see that you have awakened,” the mage spoke, that soft, elegant voice of his barely reaching the older man’s ears.

“Obviously,” Loghain drawled out to him. He lifted that brow higher. “You seem…surprised.”

Arawn frowned, giving a slight shrug of a broad shoulder. “Somewhat,” he freely admitted, pulling the other chair free from the table and seating himself across from his adversary. “I had expected it some time ago, truth be told,” he continued with all honesty. “I am rather astounded that it took you so long to awaken without…assistance.”

“Disappointed?” came the Teryn’s sardonic reply.

The mage chuckled without mirth. “Oh, hardly,” the chuckle ceased, and veiled anger shone from his red, malevolent eyes. “An accident, more than likely. One that will not be repeated.”

The blood mage rose to his feet as a hand slipped into his breast pocket, pulling forth a vial of blood. Loghain felt his body grow cold as he realized whose blood was contained therein, and what use it would be to one who excelled in the forbidden arts. The warrior surged to his feet, seeking to grasp the vial, but, despite being a mage, Arawn was neither weak nor slow. Growling out a spell, he flung his hand out, the currents of shocking power flowing through the older man’s body, causing him to convulse and stagger to the floor. ‘Tsking’ at him, Arawn held the vial of blood tightly in his hand, speaking the ancient, demonic words necessary to exert control over the owner of the blood. The crackling energy ceased dancing about Loghain’s twitching form, and he jerked upright to his feet, as a marionette upon taut strings. Grinning, the mage watched as the light went out behind Loghain’s eyes, and the almost dead seeming face turned toward him. Once again under his control, the blood mage bade the man to follow him from his room. They had an important meeting with ambassadors of the Tevinter Imperium this day. Business matters in which only Teyrn Loghain, as Regent, could see to.

DA:O

“Halt!” came the sharp order, and the group turned to stare at the human guard standing atop the long stairway. Alistair shifted behind Adela, uncomfortable as she took a step closer to the obviously hostile man.

“Greetings, good ser,” the elf replied politely, glad the others were ready to strike if need be. “We have business within Haven…”

“No you do not,” the man sneered, undisguised hatred turning his lips up in a sneer. “I would have been informed if anyone was expecting…visitors.”

A blond brow rose at that, and the elven Warden cast a questioning glance back to her companions. All of them seemed equally perplexed. She turned back.

“You mean that had anyone who resided within the village expected a guest, they would have told you?” she could not help but keep the disbelief from her voice. “Rather a…close community, eh?”

“More like closed community,” the guard shot back, his behavior less and less welcoming. “We do not welcome outsiders.”

“Glad it’s not just us,” Alistair whispered from behind her, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

Jabbing him lightly in his chest with an elbow, Adela turned back to the man. “Look,” she stepped forward, not about to be bullied by a surly guard. “We know that a Brother Genetivi made his way here for research,” she poked a finger at the guard, who scowled at the tiny elven woman but actually took a short step back. “All we want is to ask someone - other than the gate guard,” the guard frowned at that, “if the man’s been here or not.” Staring the man straight in the eye, she said, “We’re not going anywhere until I get to speak with someone who would actually know.”

Her companions did well to contain any snickers, chuckles or other guffaws as normally happened whenever the diminutive woman managed to intimidate someone who was easily three times her size and thrice her temperament. There was a war of conflicting emotions and retorts obviously within the man’s mind and flashing across his face. Finally, he acquiesced, suggesting she find a Father Eirick at the Chantry atop the hill. Frowning at the guard, Adela motioned with her head, and the others fell in step behind and to the side of her as they made their way through the serene little village.

“Father Eirick,” Alistair drawled as they walked away from the surly guard.

“Seems a bit unusual, does it not?” Leliana put in as she joined the pair at the front.

“I agree,” Adela replied, looking at her two Chantry experts. “I thought men could only become chanters or affirmed. I’ve never heard of a man as a priest.”

“Neither have I,” Alistair’s voice rolled over her. She glanced over at him. His eyes were unusually wary, taking in everything in a most decidedly Zevran-like manner. She turned her head to her other friends, and noticed that they, too, felt the unease of the human Warden. Well, both Wardens.

The village may have seemed peaceful, however, Adela could not shake the very wrong feeling she got from the place.

First, there were no children running about playing. Oh, there was one child - a boy - chanting a very disturbing poem. When the group had approached him, he had been extremely rude, yet with none of the usual childlike fascination of seeing mages, warriors and rogues of their caliber. The child also, in a very grown up manner, advised the group that they were not welcome and that they should leave.

Blowing out a low whistle, Alistair tugged at Adela’s arm, leading her and the rest of the group away from the very strange child, muttering, “Creepy.” Adela found herself agreeing.

As they passed by one home, Hafter stopped in his tracks. Bowing low, his haunches raised, the great warhound let out a low, menacing growl, staring at the door to the home. The rest of the party immediately went on the alert. They had all not traveled together for so long without learning how to read each other‘s warning signs, even those of the dog. With a glance around, Adela stepped toward the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. Frowning, she turned the handle, pushing the door open. Immediately the smell of decay, rank and vile, assailed her senses. Gagging slightly, she pushed the door open further and stepped into the dankness of the cabin.

The air was oppressive, but Zevran quietly closed the door behind them, so as not to alert any passersby of their presence. The cabin was small - one room, with a fireplace and cook pit against the furthest wall, a bed to their left. It was the butcher’s block - complete with cutlery - that caused the shiver to creep up Adela’s spine. Hafter’s low growl and plaintive whine made her blood turn cold.

“Does meat bleed that much?” Alistair asked anxiously, glaring at the offending block.

“Don’t be foolish,” Morrigan snapped, studying the blood soaked wood with a keen eye.

“The Crows are known to make blood sacrifices,” Zevran put in, patting Niall gently on the shoulder. “Blood magic is used quite often, and demons appeased in such a manner.”

Adela pulled her eyes from the offending fixture, stalking around the room, her keen eyes searching, aware. Her eyes settled upon a portion of the floor, near the bed, that seemed less discolored than the rest of the rough, wooden flooring. Frowning, she gestured to Zevran, who glided across the floor to kneel beside her.

Indeed, the portion of floor the elven woman spied was a trap door. To untrained and unwary eyes, it was set, almost seamless, in the floor. With a dagger, the former Crow pried the board up, pulling it free with a ‘pop’. More fetid air, reeking of more death and decay, wafted up from the floor. Zevran’s tawny eyes looked up at the younger elf with concern and, with a gentle hand, he guided her away from the fissure. Knowing better than to argue with her friend, the elven Warden rose and stepped away, feeling Roland place a hand upon her shoulder. The others remained at their positions by the chopping block, aware that something unpleasant had been found. Zevran indicated a nearby torch, and Alistair took the torch from its sconce and held it aloft behind the elf. Zevran turned his head, taking in a deep breath of comparatively fresher air, and then stuck his head into the hole, the torch behind offering some light.

Bodies, hacked into pieces, lay scattered across the dirt floor beneath the house. Such was the pile that it was impossible to tell how many people had found their final rest beneath the rough building. The assassin frowned as his gaze settled upon the heraldry of Redcliffe emblazoned upon rusted shields and torn, rotted tunics.

With a shudder, the assassin, so used to death, fought back the bile that rose in his throat as he pushed himself away from the offending hole. Kicking the board back into place, he described - in as little detail as possible - what lay beneath their feet.

Adela blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurring vision. The look upon Zevran’s face unnerved her and she could see her own revulsion reflected upon her companions’ faces. The stoic Qunari, standing at the furthest corner of the building, had trouble mastering his features. Even the Qunari would afford their vanquished foes a more honorable burial.

Adela led her group from the building, fully expecting to be met with hostile villagers. She was surprised when they met with no one - no hostile, out for blood murderous villagers, not the crazy child with his insane chant, even the stairway guard had vanished. The elf exchanged uneasy looks with her companions. With a gesture, she sent the Sten, Morrigan and Hafter back toward the way they entered the village. Without a word, Zevran and Leliana melted into the shadows, creeping along parallel pathways to the lake. Alistair, Niall, and Roland continued on with Adela, walking up hill, toward the center of the village.

It was quiet, far too quiet, and the elven Warden found her nerves rattling. The discovery at the small cabin had unnerved her greatly, and she feared what other horrors they were likely to stumble upon in this idyllic seeming setting. As they crested the hill, they spotted several other homes, and she noted that many of them seemed untended: grass grew tall around front doors, flowers and weeds alike shared garden beds, livestock roamed freely. Ahead stood another building, this one displaying a shingle indicating it a store. The uneasy feeling would not leave her, and the elf led her companions through the open door into the building.

The stench of death crept into the companions’ collective consciousnesses, but they did well to quell the expressions of distaste from their faces. The shopkeep, an overly pale young man with pale hair and eyes, stared suspiciously at the quartet as they approached his counter. It was obvious that the stench of death was something that this man - and by extension the other villagers - were used to,. That thought, just as much as the discovery in the cabin, disturbed Adela greatly.

Roland and Alistair spoke with the man, keeping his attention on them as Adela crept through the shadows to the back room. She stifled a sharp gasp as her eyes settled upon the corpse of a young knight of Redcliffe. Her eyes narrowed, and she went to her knees, pulling the bloodied cloth from the man’s face. Head bowed down as she said a prayer to the Maker to receive Ser Donall’s soul. With a growl, she rose, pulling her daggers free of their sheaths. Blending into the shadows as Zevran and Leliana had taught her, the elven rogue slipped from the room, making her way until she stood, unnoticed behind the eerie shopkeep. Quietly, she brought her blades to his throat, and, with a snarl, demanded to know what was going on in the village.

Eyes widening, the man gasped out prayers of deliverance to Andraste, saying nonsensical things as ‘she has arisen’ and ‘all will be forgiven’ before lunging backwards, hoping to catch the elf off guard and loosen her grip upon him.

In her anger, Adela was hyper aware of every muscle and tendon tensing in the man’s body. As he pushed against her, she pushed her blades more securely to his throat, digging in slightly to draw blood. Again she demanded answers and again he answered her with nonsense. He kicked out with a foot, hoping to drop her. As he did, the elven Warden, realizing she would get no answers, dragged her dagger across his throat, opening it in a spray of blood. With a hiss, she jumped back, allowing the body to slump the floor as his lifeblood pumped from the jugular.

Staring at the body, Adela advised the three men of her discovery. Alistair bowed his head in remembrance of the knight who had, when he was a child, been kind to him. Pledging that once they found Brother Genetivi and put the murderers of the knights to justice they would put the deceased they found to a proper rest, Adela searched the shop for any supplies they would need. Taking all healing potions and health poultices she found, as well as other necessities, the elf led her group out of the building.

Months of traveling together, fighting for every step side by side conditioned the group to each other’s moves. This proved, time and time again, to be the saving grace. As it did at this time. As the four exited the shop, they were met with blade, arrow and spell as the villagers erupted from nearby buildings to attack the group.

In the distance, Adela could hear the Sten’s battle cry, and could feel the entropic nature of Morrigan’s magic upon the air. Believing that Zevran and Leliana, too, met with resistance, hoping they were dealing with it well, the elven Warden pulled her bow free of her shoulder, and proceeded to decimate their assailants.

Focused as she was in felling their foes, the elven archer always made certain she knew where her people were placed upon the field. Alistair always remained fairly close to the archer, moving as a great, destructive satellite to smash, slice and drop any enemy that got too close to her, while concentrating his Templar abilities toward any mage harassing them. Roland ran the field, picking out the most heavily armored foe and bringing that one down first. Niall, his magical arsenal impressive in its offensive nature, managed to take out great areas of enemies with ice, flame or energy. This time, she noted as she nocked another arrow to fly at a nearby mage, the Circle Mage was concentrating on taking out the apostate mages the village obviously sheltered.

A hiss escaped the elf’s lips as she felt a blade slice into her bare forearm. Turning, she watched as a human man - slender and dressed in black leathers - emerged from the shadows, a glowing blade in hand. Instinctively, she dropped her bow, reaching for her daggers as she ducked down, shouldering him in the side to knock him backwards as she freed her weapons. Surprised, the rogue staggered slightly, enough to give the elf time to pull her blades free of their sheaths. Frowning, she brought them to bear, parrying each blow of the human, dancing around him, seeking an opening to his impressive defense. She swept down, tucking under the man’s arms, swinging herself to his back. As she rose, she thrust her daggers out, cutting deeply into his sides, slicing in kidney. A scream of agony erupted from his lips, and she pulled her daggers free, watching as the black bile and blood flowed from the wounds. The rogue staggered, his life already ebbing from the wounds. With a sudden lunge, Adela swept her blades out, slicing the man’s throat. She spun about, bending quickly to retrieve her bow, as the man’s body fell lifeless to the ground.

She looked up in time to watch as Zevran melted from the shadows, digging and twisting his blades into the back of a nearby mage. Arrows whistled into the fray, and Adela looked up to see Leliana standing atop a rise, raining arrows down upon their foes. The Sten, Morrigan and Hafter continued to fight their way up the hill.

A battle cry from her right brought her attention to Roland, and she let fly an arrow into his assailant’s back. Did he just cry out that he’s the best knight in Highever? Grinning, she turned her attention to the warrior fast approaching Niall, who was deep in concentration on a spell. One, two, three arrows flew out in succession, each scoring a direct hit in the warrior’s throat, chest and eye. As he toppled over, Niall finished his spell, and a group of enemy archers convulsed, twitched, and finally fell as the energy tempest took hold of them, sending shock waves through their bodies.

No more foes launched themselves at the group. The Sten and Morrigan tromped up the hill, Hafter bounding ahead of them, huffing and barking as he spied Adela. As they regrouped, Adela turned, taking in the carnage surrounding them. It seemed to her that every villager came out to apprehend - or rather, slaughter - the intruders to their village. Many of their assailants had carried weapons - swords, axes, bows - but quite a few of them were women and men dressed in peasant clothing, fighting with nothing more than a kitchen knife, a cleaver or bared fist. Relief swept through her when she realized that no children lay amongst the dead, but she could not bring up any feelings of pity or sorrow for the destruction they had wrought.

After all, these very same villagers had caused the deaths of many of Redcliffe’s Knights; who knew what they had done to others innocently passing this way? What they had done to Brother Genetivi?

With a heavy sigh, the elven Warden Commander turned toward the rise behind them. With a gesture, as the first flakes of snow began to drift about them, she led her band upwards.

DA:O

Not surprising, the companions found more resistance from the remaining villagers. What was surprising was that they were attacked in the Chantry. The Father Eirick the front gate guard had warned them of was an apostate, something that Morrigan chortled about as they striped his corpse of robes, coin and other trinkets. Alistair was the first to remind the witch that they were, apparently, dealing with some kind of a cult, and obviously not a chantry sanctioned by the Divine. It made no difference; Morrigan continued with her smugness and the others just let the witch have her fun.

They found a battered, tortured yet very much alive Brother Genetivi lying in a small, hidden room. The poor man’s right foot was diseased, and it was both Morrigan and Niall’s opinions that it would have to be removed in order to avoid further infection. Unfortunately, neither of them was so well versed in medicinal healing and was loath to perform the act. The brother was adamant, however: despite his physical condition, he wished to journey with the companions further up the mountain and to the temple, wherein lay the Sacred Ashes. Uncertain, but not about to dismiss the man from his life’s work, Adela had the Sten and Roland prepared a litter from the broken furniture contained within the chantry. Once that was done, and with instructions from Brother Genetivi, the Warden sent the Sten, Zevran, Leliana and Morrigan up the mountain as the first strike against any further hostilities.

Once the Brother was comfortably set within the litter, which was piled with blankets and pillows, Hafter was hitched to the litter, and easily pulled the old man from the chantry and up the mountain. Adela led the group, bow in hand, followed closely by Roland and Alistair. Niall took up the rear, spells of offensive nature firmly in mind.

The four ahead of their group made quick work of any cult members they encountered. So, Adela’s group found their way up the mountainside easy going, despite the flurry of snow assailing them from above. They found their companions standing before a massive double door, set within the side of the mountain. With a few words, Brother Genetivi instructed Adela on the use of the puzzle key she had removed from Father Eirick’s body back at the Chantry. Twisting the key, she reshaped its previously flat, octagon features into a spear shaped box. This easily fit into the locking mechanism and, with a push and a twist, the doors swung open on recently oiled hinges, barely creaking as they admitted the group within.

The doors opened into a huge, cavernous chamber. High vaulted ceilings, areas missing and emitting the gray sunshine and falling snow, arched overhead, intricately detailed walls loomed to the sides. Rubble, snow and ice now decorated the once elaborately gilt floors, and elegant fire places were strategically placed along the floors. Alcoves and doorways arched to the sides, and a great curving staircase dominated the far end of the great hall. Everyone stood, staring in awe, as the images of what the hall must have looked like in its early days came to mind.

Adela hated it; she had never liked splitting their group up. And, walking into an unknown situation made this decision even more detestable. However, she could not leave Brother Genetivi alone in this place. Whether she had left him back at the chantry or here made no difference; the group would have to be divided.

And so, reluctantly, she left the Sten, Niall and Leliana behind, with a proportionate amount of their supplies, to watch over the Brother, and deal with any of the cultists that may find their way to the temple behind them.

And so, with a final warning to be wary of elaborate and cunning traps (Alistair bit his tongue on a sarcastic response), the Warden Commander of Fereldan led her much smaller troupe deeper into the ruins of the mountainside temple.

DA:O

“You have slaughtered your way here through our sacred Temple!” the man shouted, arms flailing, face contorted with mad rage. He stopped before the elven woman, pointing a strong hand into her face. “You have killed our young, and you think you have a right to demand passage?”

“Young?” the elf asked, her voice confused, questioning. “Do you mean the dragons?”

That sent the man, huge and towering over the elf, into another rage. “The Maker’s own Beloved has arisen, and you defile Her Temple, kill her children, and yet claim ignorance of your blasphemy?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll accept an apology?” Alistair’s sarcastic comment slipped from his lips before he had time to reconsider. Zevran smirked at the bold comment; Adela composed her features but she was not impressed. Sarcasm wasn’t always the best approach when dealing with mad men. Religious zealots. Cultists. Crazy people. That guy right there ranting and raving.

The man, who had introduced himself as Father Kolgrim, eyed the younger man with disdain. “You mock me, do you?” he demanded, taking a step closer to the Warden. Alistair did not flinch, did not take a single step back, but stood bravely in the face of the zealot’s rage. Roland placed a hand to the pommel of his blade, and Zevran backed away a bit, giving himself room to maneuver. Morrigan merely glared at the man, leaning almost casually upon her staff, watching for any indication he would strike.

Kolgrim stepped away from Alistair, his eyes once more going to the obvious leader of the mismatched group.

“Why have you come here?” he demanded, crossing his arms angrily to his chest. The cultists who stood to the side and behind him mirrored his stance.

Adela paused, debating about whether to tell this man about their quest. Her eyes skimmed over the forms of his followers. She counted five warriors and at least two mages that could be seen. Given the nature of the mountainside chamber they found themselves in, it was likely more foes could easily be hidden amidst the rubble and obstacles in the vast, cavernous chamber.

“We seek out the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” she intoned, ignoring the uncomfortable shifting of her fellows behind her. She watched as conflicting emotions and thoughts paraded themselves across Kolgrim’s bearded features.

“Perhaps,” he said, the venom gone from his gravelly voice, “there is a way for you to make up for your desecration of our Temple.”

A blond brow jerked up. “Why so willing to be cooperative?” Zevran asked from the back of the group, echoing Adela’s own incredulity.

Ignoring the assassin, his attention fully upon the elven woman before him, Kolgrim stepped closer, religious zeal hot in his eyes. “Perhaps I believe in second chances,” his voice was quieter now as his sight was fixed solely upon Adela. “Perhaps Her greatest enemy can become Her greatest champion!”

Unease at those words set in. “How so, exactly?” Adela asked, her eyes narrowing. She did not like the way Kolgrim was studying her. She heard Roland and Alistair shift behind her, their armor and weapons rattling slightly with their movements. Apparently, they, too, had noticed the interest with which the human was now regarding the elf.

“As it stands, the Blessed Andraste cannot realize her true power while the Ashes remain,” he began pacing in front of the group, and missed the speculative glances Adela and Alistair exchanged. “While they remain, our Beloved cannot obtain her full glory!” He raised his arms at this and the other cultists, quiet until now, murmured prayers to their risen Beloved. He turned back to the group.

“So why do you need me?” Adela asked, hands on her hips, tired of this tirade. Either attack us or don’t! she almost screamed. “Why haven’t you just sent some of your goo…followers up the hill and taken them?”

A condescending sneer crossed Kolgrim’s otherwise handsome features. “There is an immortal guardian,” he explained as one would a child. “who refuses to the see the truth in the Risen Andraste.” He frowned. “We cannot get passed him.” That frown turned to a smile. “You, however, are unknown to him. You would be able to get passed him to destroy the Ashes.”

Lunatic! “But,” she said instead, “we need those Ashes to cure an ill man.”

“You only need but a pinch,” the cultist replied quickly, eagerly. “The rest can be destroyed by pouring a vial of Andraste’s blood over them. Thusly, the power remaining in the ashes will be transferred to the Lady and her full potential shall be realized!”

“I’m not sure I like talking with this man,” Alistair muttered behind her. Adela nodded her agreement, giving a slight motion with her hands, hoping her friends will see and recognize it as a gesture to be ready. This would not be an easy battle if this came to blows.

“Ah, but to avoid an unnecessary battle…?” Zevran put in, trailing off in his thoughts. His actions, however, belied his words as he placed both hands to the pommel of his daggers, his eyes stern and aware as he began to pick his targets.

“Why would I want to do such a thing?” Adela asked, trying to buy them more time, hoping to put Kolgrim and his followers off a bit.

A smile pasted upon his face, the human stepped even closer to the elf, his eyes gleaming. “You would become a revered Sister in our flock,” he murmured to her. “With power and knowledge that only the Blessed Risen can endow.” He turned away, and Adela could feel a spell of Morrigan’s flush over her body. She realized that her daggers were now emanating a vicious chill.

While alternating between silently thanking the witch for her foresight and hoping fervently that Kolgrim and his mages did not sense the magic used, Adela shook her head at the man. “It’s wrong,” she said quietly, frowning up into the man’s face as he turned. “Everything screams at me that doing this is wrong.”

An angry scowl formed across his face. “You realize we cannot allow you to leave this place alive?” he stated, pulling from his back a massive axe.

Fear leaped in her stomach and she found herself pulling her enchanted blades free of their sheaths. She could hear her companions do that same. “You are certainly welcome to try,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster.

She stepped quickly to the side, melting into the shadows created by the twists and curves of the cavern.

Alistair quickly made his way toward the mages, using his templar abilities to render them useless.

Roland had smashed his shield into Kolgrim’s face, knocking the older man to his back.

Morrigan sent out blasts of cold against their foes before transforming into a huge, brown bear.

Zevran had vanished into the shadows, but a scream of agony to the side alerted Adela to his whereabouts.

Quietly, she swept passed the main bulk, swinging up behind the furthest mage. Quickly, precisely, she buried her daggers hilt deep into her back, twisting them before pulling them out in a spray of blood. A shriek of agony erupted from the cultist’s blood flecked lips, and she slumped, dead, to the ground. Sheathing her blades, Adela pulled her bow, and quickly sent a shower of arrows into the bulk of the cultists who erupted like lava from behind the many alcoves and rubble of the chambers.

Alistair neatly divested the remaining mage of his head, and then turned his blade and shield on those cultists that had vomited forth into their midst. Zevran and Roland had Kolgrim down onto the ground again, the assassin clutching at a wound in his side. Grimacing in pain, he danced aside as Roland’s blade descended upon the cult leader, piercing between the plates to split his heart in two. The assassin nimbly threw a dagger, catching a cultist in the eye, dropping him unceremoniously to the stone floor.

Adela aimed at an oncoming warrior, his blade up and ready to strike at the elf. Forcing herself to remain standing, she let the arrow loose, barely taking note as it scored a hit to the man’s shoulder. She quickly drew and nocked another arrow, but not before the man had intercepted her and sliced downward. Dodging to the left, she threw her arm and bow out, twisting the blade into the sturdy wood of her Dalish made weapon. Agony raced up her arm as the blade cut deeply into the flesh of her forearm slicing up to her elbow, but she followed through, twisting the blade free of the cultist’s grip. Bereft of weapon, the man swung out with his fist, hoping to catch the wounded woman. She ducked, blood pouring from the gaping wound of her arm, and twisted around, dragging a dagger free of its sheath. As she rose, she swept her off hand out, catching the man in the thigh with her sharp ironbark blade. As he cursed, swinging at her again, the elven rogue straightened, flicking her fingers into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. It took only another moment to drag her blade across his throat.

A burning pain shot up her arm. Hissing, she grasped her arm, falling to her knees as the blood dripped from the wound to the ground. Morrigan, the first to notice, sprinted toward her friend, pulling a healing potion from her pack as she recalled a spell. Dropping beside the elf, Morrigan forced the potion down Adela’s throat, and then grasped the injury as she sent a healing spell flowing through her fingers. The wound was deep, but not life threatening and Adela admonished Morrigan when she saw how Zevran clutched his side, blood seeping from his fingertips.

“Your injury was the most obvious,” the witch protested as she turned her healing talents to the assassin.

“Ah, my lovely raven,” the former Crow purred as he slumped to the floor beside Adela. “Glad I am that my handsome mage taught you healing arts,” he sucked his breath in between clenched teeth as Morrigan prodded his wound.

“You should be quiet, elf,” Morrigan sulked at him as she pressed a poultice into the wound. “Lest you find yourself lying upon the floor unconscious.”

“Ah, but lying upon the floor beside you,” he persisted, “would well be worth it, no?”

“No,” Morrigan stated quite firmly as Adela rose to join Alistair and Roland. The tone of her voice left no opening for the assassin, and so he sat quietly as she tended to his wounds.

After divesting the corpses of any usable supplies - such as healing poultices, lyrium potions, and such - the group left the cavern, and stepped out into the bright sunshine.

　

[SheilaD67]

Ah, the alerts, the favorites, the reviews! As always, an extra special thanks to those who take the time to review: Arsinoe de Blassenville, Nithu, CCBug, mutive, Biff McLaughlin

My hands actually hurt from typing this chapter. *ouch* And it’s not even my longest!

Alright, alright, alright…as if admitting none of this is mine would do any good! But, fine! It’s not mine!

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 29

　
The gloom of the caverns and tunnels made her eyes sensitive to the sunlight. Not brilliant, certainly, but bright to cause the elf to blink several times against the tearing of her eyes as she and her companions stepped from the cavern in where lay the remains of Kolgrim and his fanatical followers. She lifted her face, the falling snow catching in her long lashes, causing her eyes to blink even more furiously. She took a deep breath of the first lungful of fresh air she had had since entering the vile village just the day before.

Shielding her sensitive eyes, she gazed around them. Ahead of them were the devastated pathways leading to another building across the ruined courtyard. Cliffs and jagged ledges encircled the area, almost enclosing it in its natural walls. Snow flurried around them, accumulating upon the cold, stone ground as the wind whistled and blustered around corners and up the crevices and airshafts.

The elf halted, however, when the gusts of wind took on another tone. Motioning everyone back, she scanned the horizon, pulling her field of vision closer. A frown formed on her smooth features, and she turned, hand over her eyes, to peer up onto the many ledges and overhangs. Her blood nearly froze in her veins, and her vision tunneled as her blue eyes settled upon the majestic form of a slumbering high dragon.

Red scales shimmered in the gray sunshine, darkening around the creatures great shoulders and to its underbelly. Two horns curved out from the top of its reptilian head, lengthening out over large, hooded eyes. Rows of teeth, each as long as a Qunari’s greatsword, jutted from between its lips, its long, alligator-like jaws clenched as great bouts of hot breath gusted from wide nostrils. The long head lay nestled upon crossed forelegs, its hind legs tucked under it, it’s long, spiked tail coiled protectively around its long body.

Carefully, she eased back around the corner, and, in hushed and frightened whispers, explained what she saw. Zevran risked a peek around the corner and ducked back, white showing around his lips.

“If we move very quietly,” the assassin offered in almost hopeful tones, “we should be able to sneak past the great beast.”

Giving her elven friend a look of quiet incredulity, Adela gestured toward Alistair and Roland. “And our two heavily armed and armored friends here will what? Charm their way by?”

A mischievous twinkle in his tawny eyes, Zevran quipped, “Ah, see, my dear, I think you are catching on. Our fine, handsome men here may well be able to do just such a thing, no?” He easily dismissed the glares each man shot him as he sidled over to Adela’s side once more.

“We are not seriously considering battling such a creature?” Morrigan asked, unable to contain or hide the fear in her voice. She relaxed slightly in relief as Adela shook her head.

“I have no desire to fight a high dragon,” the elven Warden declared. “Not with half our team guarding over Brother Genetivi.” She shrugged nervously, wondering if even with all their full strength she would ever consider such a thing.

Both elves went back to peering around the bend, scanning through the shadows lining the walled in walkway they would need to traverse. A walkway that went directly under the ledge the dragon now perched upon. There was no question that they could well manage to remain out of the dragon’s point of view; Morrigan had a decent chance, given her upbringing in the Wilds. Alistair and Roland were a completely different story. Neither man was particularly known for his agility and grace, and divesting them of their heavy armor and trust that they would not need to be armored once they entered the far building was a stretch of faith none of them was willing to consider.

Adela was almost ready to relinquish the day’s journey they had to give to get to where they were, turn around, and go back to where the good Brother and the others awaited when the rush of air and heavy flap of wings brought her attention up.

And up further as the dragon gave wing and flew off in a northerly direction, heading well away from the group.

Not wanting to push their luck, the four companions rushed to the far building, hastily pushing open the front doors. With a rush of relief, they hurriedly closed the doors, and turned, facing a stairway leading upwards.

It was as they stood, panting, staring up at the stairs that disappeared into the shadowy darkness above, that Adela noted the dark, coolness of the entryway they stood in. She took a deep breath. There was also a sense of peace that almost exuded from the very air itself. Despite the obvious neglect of the building, the air was clean, fresh and refreshing. Looking closely at her companions, she noted the same calm come over them as well.

The stairway led up to the first floor of the building. As they entered, they spied statues depicting the Prophet Andraste in various positions. Some showed her as the Warrior, fighting against the evil Imperium; others as the wise General, guiding those who followed her. One statue depicted her in conference with the elven leader, Shartan, their faces close together, she holding a hand over her heart, he with his head bowed slightly to her. The most predominant style of statue showed her standing straight and tall, her mantle flowing over her shoulders and down her slender form, her head held high, arms outstretched as though to the Maker. These statues lined the vast corridor they walked down, leading to another set of doors.

In front of which stood a man of middle years, dressed in archaic heavy plate. His sorrowful, wise eyes watched as the group approached, and a gentle smile formed upon his lips.

“Greetings, Pilgrims,” he said in a soft, echoing voice.

“Greetings, Guardian,” Adela replied as she stepped in front of him, stopping before him.

“You have come to seek out the Ashes of the Prophet,” the Guardian stated, and Adela nodded in reply.

“We need the Ashes to cure a sick nobleman,” Adela offered, but the Guardian shook his head.

“It is not I who decides if you are worthy to approach the Urn, Pilgrim,” he stated. “That is for the Gauntlet to decide.”

“The Gauntlet?” Alistair asked the slightest of quavers in his voice.

“Indeed,” the Guardian nodded his head. “But, before I can let you pass, there are questions that must be asked, and answers given.”

“What questions?” Adela asked.

The Guardian turned his full attention to the elven woman, his eyes reflecting back sorrow and pity. “Adela Tabris, daughter of the proud Dalish and beleaguered Alienage, Grey Warden, Commander, the path that brought you here has been fraught with pain, sorrow and suffering.” He took a slight step forward, his eyes claiming hers in their intensity, unwilling to relinquish their hold. “You stood up to Lord Vaughan and sought to free those who had been wrongfully taken. In so standing up for yourselves, those who had once been under the care of your mother now suffer. Tell me, Adela, do you feel responsible for the suffering of those within the Alienage now?”

She felt the blood drain for her face, but she raised it, her eyes meeting the Guardian’s with steady force. In a strong voice, she replied, “At one time, yes, I felt as though through my own actions I had brought pain and suffering to my people. However, since that time, I have learned that there will always be those cruel people who seek to elevate themselves by making others suffer. Such is the lot in life for the elves of Fereldan; we are always deemed unworthy of life or happiness. So, I would now encourage any of my people to protect themselves and theirs, regardless of what they may feel the consequences of those actions may bring later on.” She tilted her chin up, defiantly. “I would do it again, if need be.”

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, the Guardian stepped back. Adela, unaware of the approving gazes of her companions, bowed her head slightly, hoping no one noticed the trembling of her hands. As the Guardian turned to ask his questions of her friends, she realized just how true her own words had been. She had blamed herself upon learning of the fate of the Alienage, had learned of the purge, the sickness and the current conditions therein. She was certain that there would be those within the Alienage who, too, would blame her. However, since that time, she had learned that only when elves could be seen as people would the humans of their land cease treating them as animals. Her duty, now as a Grey Warden, was to make certain that humans did not only see her as an elf, but as a person determined to save the land from the Blight. She would remind them that the last Grey Warden to end a Blight had been elven. And that, given the opportunities, elves could and would assist in the protection of their land alongside the humans.

The Dalish had it wrong - they thought isolation would keep their people safe, allow them to grow. In some aspects, it was true. The Elves of the Dales had started regaining their longevity and some of their lost lore. However, they had no home of their own, no system set up to reflect the elven society of the past, the society they so longed to regain. Only when they stood shoulder to shoulder with those with whom they shared the land with could they even hope to do so. Changes came not by hiding away, but by dialogue and interaction with those races they deemed unworthy. As a relative outsider, despite her elven heritage, despite her Dalish heritage, Adela could so clearly see the divides between the elves of the Alienages, the Dalish and the humans. Divides created mostly from an inability to see the other side; divides created by obstinacy and mistrust.

She sighed, glancing up as the Guardian pulled back from the group. She watched the thoughtful expressions upon her friends’ faces.

She had known all along that Alistair had felt he had abandoned Duncan and the other Grey Wardens on the field. Moreover, no amount of talking with him, telling him that he had acted upon orders from Duncan would convince him otherwise. He still let it haunt him.

Roland, too, felt the sting of feeling he had left the innocents at Highever to terrible fates, even when he had been living his own torturous nightmare. The guilt he felt at surviving would continue to assail him until he could accept that there had been nothing he could have done to prevent what had happened. His dying would only have added one more to the death count.

Adela had no doubts that, with a past as bloody and harsh as his that Zevran had many regrets. She had seen that, beneath the joking and innuendos, the elven male had a deep personality and tremendously caring heart. The elven assassin, however, had refused to allow the Guardian to finish his question, merely stating that he had regrets and left it at that.

And Morrigan, staring straight and haughty, proud, at the Guardian refused to entertain any question or observation he may have. With a bow, he respected her wishes, and asked nothing of her.

With a respectful bow, the Guardian advised the group that they would be allowed to continue further into the Temple, to face the challenges of the Gauntlet.

DA:O

The first leg of the Gauntlet was rather…disappointing to the elf. A series of riddles disguised as historical fact, and the locked door at the end of the chamber mysteriously opened. It was rather anticlimactically, given the discussion with the Guardian, and Adela could not help but feel disappointed with the outcome.

It was the figure, shrouded in a faint ghostly aura that caused the elf to pause, wishing for a way to just turn tail and run. She stepped neared, certain her friends could sense the tension in each of her steps, could feel her reluctance to approach the form as they neared. Hafter, sensing his mistress’s ill ease, growl slightly in the back of his throat as the group neared.

Blond hair, curling slightly, fell down the figure’s back. Standing taller than Morrigan, the form was slender and very feminine. With catlike grace, the woman turned, revealing slender, shapely ears, sharp gray-blue eyes, and a whirling tattoo over her right eye. Her face, a sharper, older image of Adela’s own, was set in a stern mask, those eyes sweeping over Adela’s companions before resting upon the girl herself.

“Mother,” Adela whispered in a weak voice, her knees trembling as she gazed upon the beloved face of her fierce mother. Alistair moved closer, almost brushing against her shoulder, and she felt Roland’s strong presence behind her. She noticed her mother’s frown at the humans within her group, and her frown eased only slightly at the sight of Zevran.

In a strong, lyrical voice, the elven warrior spoke. “Creators protect you, my daughter,” Adaia’s eyes softened as she spoke the words of greeting. A smile crossed her face, smoothing the harsh lines, softening it so that it looked more like Adela’s own features. “Fear not for those you left behind, da’len,” her mother said, placing cold hands upon her shoulders. “Your actions, though they may have brought pain for the now, will help in the after that is to follow.”

Adela was surprised, truly. She had expected her mother to first spit out harsh words at the humans flanking her. Adaia seemed aware of that, and smiled at her daughter’s confusion. “I died by the hand of humans, daughter,” Adaia replied. “And by my own arrogance and stubbornness. Glad I am that you inherited your father’s temperance, fueled with my spirit. Had it been the other way, I am certain you would have died when you were in that vile little man’s possession.”

“Mamae,” Adela whispered, stepping nearer, wanting nothing more than to hug her mother.

Adaia smiled down at her smaller daughter. “Long had I hated, child. Hated humans, hated the Wardens, hated friends whom had no cause for such. Your heart is true, your goals just. Hold your head high, da’len. You are a child of the Dales, and it will be yet another child of the Elvhenan that will save Fereldan, and Thedas, from Man’s arrogance.”

With these words, Adaia stepped back, the aura about her growing in intensity. With a hand raised in farewell, the ghost of the Dalish warrior dissipated as mist.

Adela stood there, staring at the spot where the vision of her mother had stood, blinking back the tears that prickled at the back of her eyes. Alistair nervously cleared his throat, and she looked up at him. With a shy smile, the human warden put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her in for a tight hug. Adela put her arms about him, pressing her face against the cold metal of his armor.

“Are you alright?” he asked, shaking her gently.

Nodding, she pulled away, smiling up at him and then turning that smile upon her friends. “I’m fine,” she said, stepping out of his embrace, adjusting her armor. Her smile brightened. “Everything will be fine,” she said with strength and finality. Roland reached over and gently brushed her cheek, and nodded his agreement.

“Shall we see what the rest of this Gauntlet has in store for us?” she asked, and then led her companions further in.

The next chamber proved a battle against themselves. Adela and her companions found that such a fight was difficult, for every weakness they tried to take advantage in their opponent was used against themselves as well. The companions were battered, bruised, and somewhat disheartened by having to kill spirit versions of themselves and their friends. Scowling, Zevran proclaimed that he did not see the value in such a test.

The next chamber proved more daunting. A puzzle to cross a vast, seemingly bottomless chasm. Along each of the sides of the chasm were four flat rune stones, each large enough for the Sten to stand upon. She and her friends studied the rune stones, Alistair finding the plaque that gave a hint as to how to beat the puzzle. He frowned, declaring that he hated puzzles and then wondered how deep the chasm was. Adela stood at the mouth of the chasm. The other three alternately stepped upon the stones, and suddenly a stone appeared at the end of the path, appearing solid. With a furtive glance at her friends, Adela placed a cautious foot upon the stone, testing it. Deciding it was solid, she stepped firmly upon it, much to the dismay of Alistair and Roland, who both cried out. Roland, standing upon one of the stones, made to move, but Morrigan, standing across from him, called out, commanding him to remain where he was. Alistair then moved along the stones, and the trio began to step around and upon the remaining stones, until finally Adela was able to make her way across. Once her feet stepped lightly upon the floor, the bridge appeared, as solid as any stone. Hafter bounded along the stone bridge, barking and jumping around. With a whoop, Alistair rushed across, gathering Adela in his arms, ignoring the shaking that had come over him as he had watched her make her way across. The others joined them, and the group then moved toward the next chamber.

At the chamber’s entryway stood a stone altar, engraved with images of Andraste leading her army against the Tevinter Imperium. The Lady herself stood upon the crest of a hill, overlooking the vast armies of the once great empire, one hand stretched out before her as the wind tossed her hair back. Behind and beside her stood her generals, eyes uplifted in prayer and reverence to the Maker.

On the other side of the altar roared a wall of red flames, licking up taller than either Alistair or Roland stood. Beyond that stood a magnificent stairway, leading up.

They stood there, staring balefully at the wall of flames, at least six feet deep and that stretched directly across the chamber from one wall to the other. Zevran and Adela each paced the barrier, starting at opposite walls. Neither elf could discern a path through the flaming barrier.

The pair met up at the center. “I can see no way around it, mi amica,” Zevran admitted quietly, his honey colored eyes scanning the length and breadth of the obstacle, as though he could see something both he and Adela had missed their first sweep by.

Biting her bottom lip, Adela agreed with a slight nod of her head, her own eyes skimming along the blockade as well. With a sigh, she stepped to the altar, dropping into a crouch as she studied the surface of the altar.

She frowned, then a faint blush rose to her cheeks as she read the inscription. She glanced up at her party, and then back down at the altar. Figures I’d choose mostly men to accompany me, she thought ruefully, feeling the blush rush from her cheeks down her neck. Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she rose and told the men standing quietly behind her what the inscription said.

Zevran immediately wore a wide grin upon his handsome face, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Both Alistair and Roland fought blushes of their own. Morrigan simply scoffed, declaring that she needn‘t worry about unwanted glances from these three. Adela turned back to the firewall, offering it a glare that, had it been living person, would have frozen it to the spot. Extracting a promise that the men would avert their gazes, the elf proceeded to divest herself of all of her equipment, armor and clothing, as per the altar’s instruction.

Taking a deep breath, keeping her eyes averted forward, the elven warden stepped into the blazing barrier…and stepped through unscathed.

She turned, facing the guardian. Behind him, the firewall had vanished. The guardian stepped nearer to the elf, further blocking her view of her friends. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he said in his soft, otherworldly voice, "You have been through the trials of faith. You have walked the path of Andraste. Like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, Pilgrim." At his words, Adela found herself armed, armored, and clothed again, much to her relief. She had started to shiver with chill, nerves and embarrassment. The guardian offered her a smile and a pat upon her shoulders before releasing her fully and stepping back. She was surprised by the slight warm shock that flowed from the spirit’s touch and through her body, but she thought nothing further of it as her companions stepped forward, and ascended the stairway with her.

She stepped to the foot of the stairway, gazing up its wide berth, to the top where a magnificent statue of Andraste stood. She could feel her companions - especially Alistair, though their shared tainted blood - intensely. With a sigh, she mounted the stairs, making her way up the impressive length, to stand before the statue. At Andraste’s feet stood a marble and silverite altar, and upon that sat an urn of gold, silverite and dragon bone.

Behind the elf, Roland knelt, offering up prayers to the Maker. Alistair breathed out a reverent oath, complimenting Adela for getting them there. Morrigan stood, staring with a look of almost boredom at the urn, while Zevran made the remark of wanting a vase just like the urn for his home. Adela tossed her elven friend a smirk, then turned back to the urn, trying to discern her own feelings at their journey.

There, lying in the urn, were the mortal remains of the woman hailed as the Maker’s Bride. Conflicting emotions came over her at the thought: Andraste had been responsible for the barbarian slaves’ freedom from a dark and corrupt empire. The elves had fought by her side for their own freedom. Yet, Adela had to wonder, were the freedoms, so extravagantly purchased through blood and strife all those centuries before, managed to survive the tide of years? For the elves, the answer was a resounding ‘no’. For the mages, again, ‘no’. The Chantry, for all the flowery words and declaration that it spoke for the Maker, took more than it gave, and saw the world with hooded eyes. Yet, she could not help but feel respect for the woman who had pulled together vast armies among the Alammari barbarians, and helped toppled a mighty Imperium, which even today had not recovered from its devastating losses.

Therefore, with reverence, she said a silent prayer to the Maker, and took a pinch of the ashes, placing them inside a tiny pouch. Her fingertips numb from the contact, she gently brushed her fingers together, allowing none of the Sacred Ashes to fall to the floor, wasted.

Turning, offering up a tiny smile to her friends, Adela led the group through the side door, and back onto the mountainside.

DA:O

Heavy wings cut through the air, sending downdrafts to the ground below. Alistair looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, watching as the red high dragon resumed its perch upon the ledge just beyond the walkway. A nervous glance to his companions spoke more than words could on the anxiety level. The magnificent, ancient beast was watching the ruined courtyard with intense interest, the heat of fury all but scorching the surrounding area. Apparently, she had discovered the decimation of the cult and her young within.

DA:O

The beast’s nostrils twitched, the scent of human and elf rising upwards, floated along the updraft she had created from her recent flight. Red slatted eyes glared down along the walkway, to the courtyard and toward the hated ruins wherein the damnable immortal spirit waited. Those hate filled eyes narrowed as her sight skimmed along the crumbling walls, passed the main doorway, toward the side where stood the hidden entries into the temple. A roar burst forth from her huge lungs as her eyes settled upon those responsible for the deaths of her younglings. Gathering herself, she leaped into the air like a cat, her powerful wings beating to raise her into the air. With another bellow of anger, the great ancient beast swooped down toward the scattering group, fire bursting from her lungs, seeking to scorch and roast the fools where they stood.

DA:O

They watched with dawning horror as the great beast lunged down at them, sending her magical fire at them. Alistair gathered his willpower, hoping that his templar abilities would work against dragon’s fire. Adela and Zevran jumped aside, Adela pulling her bow free of her shoulder, nocking an arrow in a quick, fluid movement. As she brought the missile to bear, Zevran started scampering up the stone wall, keeping into the shadows, looking for a landing upon the monster’s back. Hafter, barking out his own war cry, jumped along side of Adela, ready to charge should the need arise.

Roland pulled his shield forth, dropping down into a crouch behind the wall as the fire blasted toward him. Morrigan, standing to the side, called forth a cone of ice, enveloping the creature’s maw within a sheet of ice. She followed that up quickly with a stone fist, shattering the ice, and punching the nose beneath the icy sheath, jerking the creature’s head back with a snarl of outrage.

Alistair sent out a cleansing force, but found that dragon’s fire was not the same as mage fire. Shouting out his discouragement, the ex-templar raised his own shield and sword, and proceeded to lunge toward the great brute, cleaving at the creature’s underbelly. Roland had risen and joined the other warrior.

The dragon danced back on its four feet, angrily roaring at the pair of warriors who worried her underside. Zevran found purchase within the stone wall and continued his climb upwards, seeking a position just above the great wyrm’s back. Morrigan continued to assault the beast with frost, stone and energy, alternating between the primal and entropic spells at their foe and healing (she thanks Wynne and Niall for their patience in training her!) to her allies. A stead stream of ice arrows sprang from Adela’s bow, many merely bouncing off the tough scaly hide, but many more finding purchase between the scales along its chest, throat and underbelly. Hafter, seeing his chance, raced under the creature, nipping and biting at its forefeet, tearing at its toes.

The great beast let out a scream of outrage, flapping its wings to seek purchase into the air to get away from the sting and pain of the swords, arrows and spells of its tiny foes. Zevran, seeing an opening, leaped from his stony hold, arms out stretched, his daggers held out and blades down in his hands. He landed in a not-quite-so-graceful fall upon one wing, his daggers ripping through the thin membrane as he scrambled for purchase. The dragon hissed and roared at the newest pain, fumbling back to the ground as the ruined wing failed to offer enough resistance to pull it off the ground. With a triumphant ‘ha!’ the elven assassin rose swiftly, dancing lightly across the bones of the wings, leaping gracefully upon the creature’s scaly back, immediately dropping, driving his daggers deeply into the back of the dragon‘s neck.

Pain erupted from the wounds, and the not-Andraste dragon roared again, this time breathing out fire. Adela, forced to drop her bow, barely rolled out of the way, while Morrigan scampered against the wall, calling forth another cone of ice upon the dragon. Alistair and Roland danced further beneath the behemoth, their blades finding soft spots and tearing and rending scales free, driving their blades deeply into the soft flesh below.

Adela’s roll brought her too close to the dragon, and the beast ceased its fiery breath. Swooping down, it sought to grasp the scrambling elf into its jaws. Pulling out a dagger, Adela spun about, ducking and twisting away from the creature’s sharp teeth. Striking out quickly, she slashed her blade across the sensitive nostrils of the monster. Hissing in a decidedly catlike fashion, that monstrous head dove forward, knocking the elf to the ground, her dagger skittering away out of reach. Pain exploded along her body as the powerful jaws closed around her, scooping her up off the ground, the sharp teeth digging into the magically enhanced leather of the armor she wore. A scream of abject terror forced its way passed her lips, and she grappled with the jaws, trying in vain to jam her fingers into the sensitive flesh of the gums and lips.

Morrigan’s cry of horror blended with Adela’s scream of anguish. Alistair, closest to the women, watched in helpless dread as the creature’s head rose, shaking the elf in its mouth like a rag doll. Fury, intense and unknown to the young man, rose in his heart, and, discarding his shield, he launched himself bodily at the beast’s head, his blade held upwards as he leaped up. Driving the blade forward and down, he lodged it deeply into one malicious, glaring eye. The creature snarled in outrage and pain, dropping the lifeless form of Adela to the ground. Giving his own cry of fury, Alistair pulled himself up onto the face of the beast, holding on by his embedded sword. Bracing his feet, holding on as the dragon swung its head in an attempt to dislodge the human, Alistair pushed with his weight upon the blade, hoping to drive it deeper into the eye, seeking its brain.

Zevran continued driving his daggers into the creature’s neck, pulling them free, using them to scale the long, serpentine neck. He did not witness the attack upon Adela, could not see Alistair’s struggle upon the maw of the beast. His only thoughts were to reach the head, and seek a soft spot in its skull, thereby ending the battle as quickly as possible.

Roland, below, turned his eyes from Adela’s bloodied form, swallowing down his own fear as he saw, from the corner of his eye, Morrigan approach the elf, hopefully with healing. He positioned himself directly under the dragon’s soft belly. Tossing down his longsword and shield, the knight pulled his seldom-used greatsword from his back. Crouching down, he positioned the blade, tip up. Then, with an anguished, enraged war cry, the knight drove the blade upwards with all his strength, driving it hilt deep into the soft flesh, tearing through skin, flesh, and into the organs beneath. Blood poured from the wound, covering the knight as he pulled the blade free, moving toward the chest of the great, languishing beast.

With gentle hands, Morrigan pulled Adela’s broken body away from the battle. Pouring her healing into the elf, she vainly struggled to find her life’s pulse. Nothing. She poured more healing into her, taking only a mere moment to gulp down two vials of lyrium. Brushing a blood strand of hair from her face, she then poured a vial of healing potion down the elf‘s throat. There, a faint beat pulsed along her finger at the elf’s slender throat. Repeatedly, the mage cast healing spells and poured healing potions into the girl, gulping vial after vial of lyrium, trying desperately to keep the young woman alive as the warriors and assassin fought to bring the murderous beast down.

He had no idea how long he hung onto his sword, pushing, jamming it and twisting and jabbing it into the beast’s eye. He knew he hurt it - badly - as it continued to road and shake its head. However, the movements were slowing, becoming weaker, and he was certain that he had hit brain matter as his blade slipped easily to the hilt in its eye. With a vicious twist, he spun the blade fully about, digging out great chunks of the eye, blood and clear fluids now flowing easily over his hands and arms. His feet slipped, and he went to his knees, his grip on his sword the only thing keeping him from falling many feet to the hard, stone ground below. Alistair glanced up, and saw Zevran there, driving his blades down into the creature’s skull. A weak murmur of a roar whispered from the beast’s maw, and it started to slump to the ground, its struggles becoming less and less intense. He clung to his sword, praying to the Maker that Adela was all right.

Roland saw that the beast was failing. Driving his blade once more up between its ribs, he drove it hilt deep, unsure if he hit anything vital, knowing only that the creature was dying. And falling. Leaving his blade where it was embedded, the young knight rolled out from under the creature as it fell to its side, a great gasp escaping its bloodied lips. He watched as Alistair, too, left his sword buried hilt deep in one eye and leaped ungracefully to the ground. Zevran, with his own usual grace, practically danced from the creature’s head, his eyes alight with triumph over their vanquished foe.

That light died as his eyes fell upon the prone and bloody figure Morrigan held gently in her lap as she continued to cast healing spells into her still body.

　

[SheilaD67]

Thanks for the alerts, the favorites (I got another author favorite! *squeal*)! As always, an extra special thanks Arsinoe de Blassenville, who always takes the time to give a shout out to me.

You know, I keep waiting and waiting for BioWare to sign over all of their rights to DA:O and universe to me, but, it never arrives!

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 30

　
Zevran had raced back to the where the entrance to the temple was, only to meet with impenetrable marble, stone and mountain. Scowling fiercely, the elven assassin slipped to the side, and again, instead of finding the exit he knew they had passed through found only unmarred stone. Dejectedly, he paced back to where Morrigan continued to cast healing spells over Adela’s inert body, Alistair and Roland hovering protectively over them as Hafter paced around. As they waited, the snow continued to fall, collecting at their feet, as the wind whistled mournfully around the corners and edges of the mountainside.

It took several more minutes before Morrigan proclaimed Adela stable enough to move. Without hesitation or a word, Alistair gently put his arms under the elf’s head and knees, carefully lifting her into his arms. Roland and Zevran took point, Alistair and Adela in the middle, Morrigan and Hafter taking up the rear.

They found the exit back into the cult’s center. Roland and Zevran entered first, making certain that no other foes remained. Content it all was clear, they led the others into the vast chamber.

To the side of the chamber was a small room, complete with a bed. Alistair gently laid Adela down and Morrigan resumed her healing spells. The witch was obviously exhausted; healing was not her strong suit and the amount of energy and mana required for the spell casting was immense, especially given the damage Adela had taken from the dragon. Roland and Zevran offered to fetch Niall, and Alistair quickly gave his assent with a nod, telling them to move with all haste. Roland quickly divested himself of his heavy armor, wearing only the wool and cotton trousers and tunic beneath. Carrying only his longsword, the knight followed quickly after the already departed elven assassin.

Morrigan rested her head on the bed next to Adela for several moments, feeling an overwhelming sense of fear wash over her. A slender, elegant hand brushed along Adela’s forehead, sending small bursts of healing through. The elf’s injuries were extensive, and the witch was truly doubting her ability to keep the young woman alive. Each of her ribs had been broken, and given the ragged breathing she guessed that at least one of her lungs had been damaged, if not punctured. Her left arm and both legs, along with her back, were broken, but were now set and were healed enough to allow for movement. Morrigan was certain her skull was cracked, and she looked forlornly at the lovely woman’s smashed face. She moved the hand to the elf’s abdomen, sending out seeking energies there. As she feared, there were internal injuries as well. She bit back a sob; how was she going to keep the elf alive long enough for the more proficient healer to arrive?

There was a light tap to her shoulder, and she looked up in to concerned and haggard face of Alistair. She frowned; she and the ex-templar were just beginning to become comfortable in each other’s presence, something that had started during their journey through the Brecilian Forest. She was well aware of his feelings for his fellow Warden, and she was concerned that those same feelings would make him irrational at this time. Another look into his face, however, consoled her that he would not make any unwarranted scenes, but would support her efforts as best as he could. With a sigh, she placed her hands upon Adela’s abdomen, calling forth upon her healing magic, sending it through the poor girl’s broken body.

During this time, Alistair had moved from Morrigan, removing his gauntlets and began pulling supplies from his pack. Anything that could remotely be used for healing he placed within reach of the witch. He then pulled free a woolen blanket and, with a nod from Morrigan, placed it over Adela’s shivering form.

“We need to remove her armor,” Morrigan said with a frown as she rose and began to undo the leather skirt to her armor. Nodding, Alistair rose to assist in the removal.

Now down to the wool and cotton clothes she wore beneath the armor, Adela’s shivering resumed. The witch quickly covered her with the blanket. She knew that the underclothing would need to be removed as well, but she had managed to keep the swelling down from her broken limbs, and decided the need to keep the elf warm was more important than removing the clothing at this time. She then pulled forth healing poultices and potions, and began to apply them to the bleeding and open wounds on her face, head and torso, periodically sending forth more healing magic in an attempt to heal the multitude of broken bones.

The healing was slow, tedious, and thoroughly outside of her comfort zone. Morrigan was concerned, more concerned than she has ever been about anyone. This elf - tiny, unassuming, non-demanding little woman - had become so important to her in such a short period of time. This elf had managed to worm her way through the carefully constructed walls the witch had placed around her heart so long ago that at times it was nearly as overwhelming as the first steps she took out of the Wilds. That she was important to all of Fereldan as one of only two remaining Grey Wardens was irrelevant to the witch. That she is Adela Tabris meant more than anything to the witch.

Alistair shuffled nervously by her side, trying to shrink his huge bulk, to keep out of the apostate’s way while still making himself available should she need assistance. Morrigan smirked at that, but was none the less comforted by his nearness. She sent more healing magic into the small body, hoping and praying (to whom she will not admit) that Niall would make his miraculous appearance sooner rather than later. She doubted her own magical prowess with mending. Give her a target to rend, hex, curse or destroy, and the witch was as confident as any with her magical prowess. Healing left her feeling weak and next to useless. But it was those very same abilities now that will keep the elf alive.

And, she will keep the elf alive. She snarled this bit to herself as she placed another poultice upon a weeping head wound. The girl’s will was strong; Morrigan’s will was strong. She ran her hands down the length of the elf’s small body, casting healing magic again into her, feeling the bones of her arm and legs knit together beneath her ministrations. She then reached for a lyrium potion. The witch had never had to rely overly much on these potions, but casting such foreign magic, and over such an extended time, had depleted her own substantial natural mana supply significantly.

She barely noticed that Alistair had risen to his feet, and he moved to the elf’s head, his eyes dark with worry and concern as a large hand gently brushed aside an errant lock of blood encrusted hair. Yellow eyes raised momentarily and she nearly gasped at the gentle look that had fixed upon the young man’s face as he stared down into the unconscious elf‘s battered face. And though she was not certain she can identify the exact emotion that look expressed, she did realize that she had seen a similar expression upon another face, an expression that had been directed at her. Shaking her raven head, the witch resumed her tending to the injured woman, putting such thoughts aside.

For now.

DA:O

The pair of men moved quickly through the abandoned temple ruins. Apparently, during their first foray through the cultists’ temple they had managed to either outright kill all of the cultists therein or discourage any further attacks from the zealots. Regardless, Roland and Zevran managed to reunite with the splinter group and collect Niall in just an hour.

But, that hour had been purchased through ceaseless running, dodging and full out flight from the greater chamber above. Niall, not as physically fit as either knight or assassin, would require more time to make the journey. What took the pair of seasoned and fit warriors an hour to traverse now took twice that to return.

Roland’s nerves were tense, and he fought against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that Morrigan would do everything within her power and knowledge to keep Adela alive, that the witch cared about the young elf greatly. But Niall was their healer, one who was very strong in both his art and medicinal knowledge. Had he been with them immediately after the attack…

He shook his red head, forcing those thoughts from his mind. Niall was valiantly trying to keep pace with the knight and assassin, but Roland can see how red his face had gotten with his exertions. He glanced around; they were in the large chamber where they had encountered dragon lings and cultists - including several mages. Raising his hand, he called for a halt, passing his canteen of water over to the exhausted mage, who stood, hands on his thighs, doubled over as he tried to regain his breath.

Barely breathing hard, Zevran scouted around the room and to the opposite passageway, making certain their route remained clear.

Niall thanked Roland as he passed the canteen back over, standing straight, and then flexing his back to loosen muscles that threatened to lock up on him at any moment. Roland watched the mage carry through his stretching exercises. The relief that passed through him was strong once the mage indicated he was ready to continue their race through the twisting corridors that wend their way through the mountainside.

The relief that Roland felt was profound as they entered the vast chamber that had been the scene of their battle with Kolgrim and his fanatics. Leading the mage to the small chamber to the side, the knight watched as Niall took Morrigan’s place by Adela. He could see the relief that passed over the witch’s normally impassive features. Morrigan then shooed the three men from the room, explaining that they would only get in the way and make their job more difficult.

Roland and Alistair’s eyes met in quiet concern. Zevran, taking Morrigan’s words to heart, pushed the two human males from the room, ‘Tsking’ at them for delaying their exit. With a final glance, Roland left the chambers, closely behind Alistair and Zevran.

Niall barely acknowledged their departure, his attention so fully upon the now still form of Adela. He praised Morrigan for her quick thinking and actions, all of which prevented the small elven woman from dying there upon the battlefield. The witch fairly preened at the male mage’s praise and she immediately set to task of following each and every one of his instructions. The mage smiled. Even proud Morrigan knew when another had skills that surpassed her own.

Hours passed and the rest of their party reunited in the chambers. The Sten had carried Brother Genetivi and had placed the old man upon several bedrolls in the main chamber. Adela had fallen into convulsions and then violent chills. They worked quickly, applying poultices, healing potions and spells upon her quivering form. Finally, her body warmed to normal degrees, and the convulsions subsided. They managed to repair her broken bones, torn ligaments and tattered muscles. The internal bleeding had ceased, and her breathing, while still ragged, resumed a more rhythmic motion, one associated with someone deep in slumber.

Still, the healer was not able to heal all of the injuries perpetrated upon the small form. He fretted mostly over her head injury.

“I believe that there has been swelling of her brain,” he tiredly told his fellows. His eyes glanced over at the pale form of the elven warden. “She is in a natural sleep, and for now, I think that is what is best for her. Nature can heal what magic cannot.”

He rubbed at his eyes, grainy from over spending his magic, tired from sleepless days of worry while he and the others awaited Adela and her group’s return. He had dreaded, and driven his companions crazy. He just knew that something would go amiss.

He had no idea that it would be their intrepid leader - Fearless Leader as they had all taken to calling the tiny elven woman with more heart than muscle.

“How long before she will awaken?” Alistair asked in a voice the mage did not recognize, for it was too small, too young for even the occasionally child-like young man.

Exhausted, he shrugged. “A week, perhaps two. But even when she awakens,” he warned as the faces of his fellows fell as one, “she will still need rest. Depending upon how she is when she does awaken.” He was not about to say if she awakens; that was too pessimistic even for him.

Yes, as much of a naysayer as he tended to be, he had every hope, every thought that Adela would, indeed, pull through this. She was strong - perhaps not so much in body, but her mind, heart, soul and willpower held a strength that few others ever did. He turned his head to gaze at the prone figure of their leader. He had confidence she would survive.

He just did not know in what condition she would be in when she did, finally, open those magnificent eyes of hers.

DA:O

Alistair listened as Niall gave his diagnosis, taking note that Morrigan would nod her dark head in confirmation. With a sigh, he ran a huge hand over his face, his shoulders slumped. Niall stated he believed she would wake up. So, there was hope. Niall had then stated that it would take some time due to the swelling of her brain. How did one’s brain swell? The warden shook his head, clearing out the thoughts. If Niall understood it, that was enough for him.

So, now they had a decision to make. No, he had a decision to make. With Adela out of commission for now, the duty of command fell fully upon his shoulders. He groaned at that, recalling the first time he had been placed in charge. But the second time had been successful, he reminded himself quickly, not allowing his mind to dwell too much upon Connor. He bowed his head, thinking, trying to keep himself from staring at Adela’s too still form.

The most important thing was to get the Ashes back to Redcliffe. He knew this; they had no idea how much longer Eamon had, if he even still lived. He forced that thought right out of his head quickly. Wynne was there, along with the little elven mage, Artemis, of whom Wynne had spoken of with great respect. All healers, all extremely skilled.

So, his task fell to getting the Ashes to Redcliffe so that those same extremely skilled healers could put it to use. Now he glanced over at Adela. He had been sorely tempted to use the Ashes upon her. Especially when Zevran reported that the entrances back into the Guardian’s lair had been closed off. However, he knew Adela too well. She would be angry and disappointed if they had risked all that they had for what she would consider nothing. And, while her life was worth more to him than Eamon’s or anyone else’s, he felt he could not bear her disappointment. Then, Niall had assured them that he felt she would survive.

He turned his gaze from Adela to skim over their group. The Sten had brought Brother Genetivi up with them, and the old man sat, listening and watching. Leliana had told Alistair that Niall had changed his diagnosis of the scholar and that he had managed to save his foot, although the Brother would need to rest for a long period of time before he could use it properly again, if ever.

Adela had to remain here. And send the Ashes with some of their party to Redcliffe.

“Everyone,” Alistair called out once he had the basic formation of a plan in his head. Everyone, save for Niall, who was back at Adela’s bedside, turned their full attention upon the Warden.

Okay…”The first thing we need to do is get Adela and Brother Genetivi,” he bent his head to the scholar, who nodded back up at him, “to more comfortable chambers.”

“The Chantry,” Leliana offered immediately, her clear blue eyes turning toward the passageways. “I noticed that living areas were set for their Father Eirick. It should be comfortable, easy to keep warm, and easily defendable, should any of the remaining villagers seek revenge.” The bard turned her gaze back to the human warden.

After a moment’s thought, he nodded. “Niall,” the mage lifted his head. “Is Adela stable enough to move down to the Chantry?”

The mage’s face scrunched in thought as he turned his thoughtful gaze upon the young elf in question. With a nod, he replied, “I believe so. We’ll need to set her upon a litter; carrying her would jar her too much.”

With a nod, Alistair continued. “Great. Then we’ll need a small group to bring the Ashes back to Redcliffe.”

“What?” Leliana stepped forward, frowning. “You mean we’re to leave some of us behind?” Alistair could tell the bard did not like this idea. “What if the villagers prove less than forgiving?”

“We’ll have to fortify the defenses around the Chantry,” the warden conceded with a frown. “We can’t delay the return any longer. We need Arl Eamon’s assistance against the Blight, and this is the only option, short of risking Adela, that I can come up with.”

“He’s right,” Roland offered as support to his friend. “It’s the only way.”

Alistair smiled without humor. “I’m glad you think so, Roland,” the knight turned his red head toward the blond. “Because you are going to lead the group back.”

The knight’s green eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “The hell I am,” he replied between clenched teeth. Alistair frowned. He had thought the other man would disagree…moving quickly, he pulled Roland to the side.

“Roland,” he began, “I am not sending you as a way of getting my rival out of the way,” he had immediately seen what angered Roland and wanted to quench that thought immediately. Honestly, the thought had never occurred to Alistair; he just knew Roland was the best man for the job. And he told him so.

Roland stood, glaring at the man. After a few moments of thought, and a deep breath, the knight surprised Alistair by saying, “Recruit me.”

Alistair blinked. What? “Excuse me?” he asked, trying to wrap his mind around the suggestion.

Roland took a step forward, allowing barely a few inches between them. “I said recruit me.” He crossed his arms to hic chest, glaring at the other man. “You may be Adela’s second, but I am not under anyone’s command here. If you want me to obey your orders, then you’re going to have to do something that puts you in direct command of me.” The proud knight straightened, lifting his handsome head. “So, that means you have to recruit me into the Grey Wardens.”

Floored and speechless, Alistair stood there dumbfounded. Finding his voice, he whispered, “Are you sure about this, Roland? Once I recruit you, there is no turning back.”

His expression softening, Roland replied. “Look, had Highever Castle not fallen, I would have met up with the Wardens at Ostagar and taken the Joining. Regardless of what I’ve seen since joining up with Adela, my mind has not been changed to the fact that I wish to become a Grey Warden.”

Alistair did not miss that he had said that he had joined Adela, but let is slide. He took a moment to study the other man. He saw the strength of Roland’s determination - to either remain at the side of the woman he cared for, or to join with the Grey Wardens. He shook his head, taking a moment to think. Adela had never mentioned allowing Roland within the ranks. The subject had come up once or twice, but she had always pushed it aside. Alistair felt that the young woman did not want to subjugate a friend to the joining. She had not liked it, and, even now, still had trouble with dealing with the personal consequences of the joining.

However, in a sense, Roland was now asking to join with the Wardens, to fulfill a promise he made to Duncan, to join an organization the young knight fully believed in. He was strong, knew how to battle the darkspawn, and was a natural leader and impressive warrior. He could almost hear Duncan’s voice in his head. We need men like him.

Letting out a deep sigh, Alistair nodded his head. Raising his eyes to look directly into Roland’s, he raised his voice so that everyone could hear, “Very well. Ser Roland Gilmore, formerly Knight of Highever, I hereby induct you into the Order of the Grey Wardens of Fereldan, whereupon at such time as we are able you shall undertake the Joining. Until said time, you shall conduct yourself in a manner fitting the Grey Wardens.”

He watched as Roland stood slightly straighter, but let out a breath of relief. He had actually thought Alistair would deny his demand. “So shall I do,” the knight replied formally.

With a small grin, the senior warden said, “So, now that that is taken care of. Recruit Roland, you are hereby ordered to take the Ashes back to Redcliffe. The Sten and Leliana shall accompany you.” He watched with satisfaction as Roland nodded his agreement and did not argue with Alistair any further.

Turning to the rest of the group, who had been watching with great interest, he replied, “So, first duty is to make a couple of litters and take Adela and Brother Genetivi down to the Chantry.”

Nodding their agreement, the group went off in search of materials to put together the litters.

　
　

[SheilaD67]

Thanks for the alerts, the favorites, and especially the reviews! Nithu, celtic-twinkle, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Eriana10, Biff McLaughlin!

Most of the above reviewers are also wonderful authors. I strongly recommend reading their stories. To receive reviews from these authors (all whose works I have read and thoroughly enjoyed) is a great blessing to me and helps to encourage my own writing.

As always, I do not go canon with my stories. To do so would be rather boring! After all, if you want canon or as game play, I’d suggest buying David Gaider’s books or play the game. I’m just taking BioWare’s marvelous universe and twisting it to best suit my own twisted wants and desires. *maniacal cackle here*

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 31

　
The pain was gone, and she was able to move. Twisting her head slightly, she noticed that she was lying upon a soft bed. It was too dark and she could not make out the details of the room she lay within. Tentatively, she pushed herself up, fully expecting pain to blossom within her. That it did not confirmed what she had suspected: she was in the Fade.

A frown settled upon her fine features as she rose from the bed. Feeling her way along the wall, she found the window. Pulling aside the window treatments allowed bright sunshine to flood the room. She turned and was surprised to discover that she was in her room back at her father’s home in the Alienage.

Seeking comfort in home, she thought as she moved toward her armoire and wardrobe, pulling out clean under garments and a set of leather trousers and a linen shirt. She peeled off the trousers and tunic she currently wore - both garments caked with dried blood - and quickly washed in the basin filled with hot water. Once dressed, she plaited her long hair into two braids, grabbed up her bow and daggers, tucked her lock picks and other tools into her braids, and quickly exited her room.

She had hoped to see her father in the living area of the house; expected to see Shianni, whole and warm, seated by the fire. Perhaps even Soris with his new bride. All she found, however, was an empty room, quiet and bereft of fire or family. Frowning slightly, she made her way to the house’s door, stepping out into the Alienage.

Death and decay greeted her as she exited her home, confirming her fears that a great evil had descended upon her childhood home. The orphanage, lying just down the lane and across from her home, resembled little more than a burnt out shell. Bodies lay haphazardly upon the dirt ground, in varying stages of decay. With a strangled cry, the elf turned and fled the area, seeking the gate that led from the Alienage into Denerim’s market district.

The gate was locked and no one on the other side would acknowledge her shouts and cries. She looked up, taking in the length of the gate, deciding whether to try to make her escape that direction. She half turned her head, back toward the destruction of the Alienage, and wondered if she should try one of two other exits she knew of. Glaring at the gate, she turned, resolute in her steps, hoping to find a way out of this nightmare she found herself trapped within.

DA:O

The group had found relatively little resistance to their setting up home at the Chantry. A few of the villagers had survived, nearly all of them thanking them profusely for liberating them from the tyranny of Kolgrim and his zealots. The mother of the small boy whom they had met initially even offered them food and other necessities as they set up the Chantry for the winter. Grateful and amazed at the welcome, the companions could only nod their heads in thanks.

That had been almost two weeks ago, and Roland, the Sten and Leliana had just barely made their way down the mountainside before the first of the winter storms hit. Hafter bounded in the snowdrifts happily, and Roland shook his head, thankful that Alistair had allowed the great warhound to accompany them. The knight - no, Warden Recruit - figured that the senior warden felt guilty about sending him away from Adela and so suggested the warhound go with them. Whatever Alistair’s motivations, Roland was grateful for the beast’s presence. Not only was he a clear tie to Adela, but the dog’s fighting abilities would come in handy.

The dog also loved to hunt, as was evident by the numerous half-chewed hares the former knight would find in his pack at night. He sighed at that. He and Hafter had never fully gotten on well, and the dog seemed to take immense pleasure in torturing the poor man. There were times when Roland actually considered the idea that the dog was purposefully trying to upset him, as if he was working against his being with Adela. The trip thus far only succeeded in strengthening that notion.

The small group made good time, and Roland was grateful for that as well. Alistair’s parting orders had been for the group to remain at Redcliffe until they had word from him or Adela. If too much time had passed, and the men agreed three weeks after winter’s end would be too much time, then Roland could make the decision as to whether to return to Haven or continue collecting on the treaties.

Alistair, apparently still sensing the other man’s reluctance, had qualified his decision by telling Roland that not only was he not a wanted man, as he was, but that he was used to being in command. Add to that the fact that, as a fully knighted servant of Highever, he would be considered an honorable source of information, trustworthy to one such as Arl Eamon in relating the situation. He was Fereldan, so he would also not arouse any further suspicions as he traipsed across the country. That the Sten and Leliana were foreigners could be explained away as they were his retainers.

Roland suspected Alistair had a long list and would have continued with his justifications, but the former knight finally put the man’s mind at ease by stating that Alistair had made the best decision for everyone concerned. After assuring his friend, and now commander, of his confidence they would regroup at Redcliffe Castle at winter’s end, Roland led his band from the village, and out of the mountains.

The air off mountain was less biting, but the snow continued to fall, and they found themselves wading through snow that was several inches deep. Roland frowned. In Highever, they suffered mostly from rain, being so close to the coast, with occasional bouts of snowfall. He had never understood the allure of the snow. Even as a child growing up in the Bannorn, he had never gotten the appeal. Yet here was both Hafter and Leliana bouncing around and skipping through the snow like children. Even the Sten seemed amazed by the fluffy, cold white stuff. The former knight allowed himself a grin. Of course, going from the tropical weather of the island of Seheron to the winters of Fereldan would be a vast change for the giant warrior.

He glanced upwards at the darkening sky. They would need to either find shelter or set up camp for the night soon. Noises to the west told the young man that a homestead was nearby. Motioning for his companions to follow, he led them over a frozen field, toward the small farmhouse, livestock pens and hay barn he spotted. After offering the farmer and his wife a sovereign to be allowed to sleep in the hay barn and to have meals brought to them, Roland went about setting up for the night.

DA:O

Niall gazed around the Chantry, making certain that everything was in its place and that everything had a place. The Chantry had four separate chambers, plus the chapel. Adela had been set up in what they presumed had been Eirick’s chambers. The villagers had brought up spare beds and these had been set up in the other three chambers, Niall and Morrigan both insisted that Adela needed her own room to allow for quiet. No one argued, and were more than pleased with their accommodations.

The mage had been amazed at how welcoming the surviving villagers, who obviously those who had not taken part in any of the attacks upon the intruders, had been but also how much like saviors they treated the companions as. The woman, Adelaine, had explained how Kolgrim (she refused to call him Father Kolgrim) would assign the women to the men who had most pleased him. The goal was to produce as many children by that particular man as possible. Her head drooping, she explained how she, herself, had been used to birth five children by different fathers, Kolgrim included, since aged fourteen. The mage was incensed by that thought and then allowed another to come to mind: just how inbred were these poor people?

Adelaine and her son, Josef, were regular visitors to the Chantry. The boy’s oddness wore off soon enough the more time he spent with Alistair and the others. Niall grinned. Alistair’s easygoing nature had put the introverted boy at ease immediately, and he now followed the large man around like a puppy. Adelaine was particularly pleased, stating that he needed someone to look up to whose entire existence was not based upon violence, destruction and lies. Niall figured that, even with a life as a Grey Warden, Alistair’s own philosophy was as far from Kolgrim’s as one could get.

Josef was at this moment sitting awestruck as Alistair and Zevran re-told the story of how they defeated the high dragon, the supposed reborn Andraste. The boy’s face lit up as Zevran replayed how he had struck his daggers deep into the great skull of the beast. Niall shook his head, smiling at his lover as he turned back toward the chamber wherein Adela lay; Morrigan sitting beside her, reading from one of the non-Chantry issued books they had managed to find.

It had been almost two weeks since the others had left, and still Adela lay in her sleep. He and Morrigan had prepared broths to spoon down her throat to keep her body from wasting away. The Circle mage had to admit that the swamp witch was far more knowledgeable about herbs and potions than he was, and had gladly allowed her to concoct whatever potion she saw fit to keep the young elf alive. Despite the nutrition they managed to get into her, Adela’s small frame had lost much of its mass, and the mage was beginning to worry that, if she did not awaken soon, he would need to put her into a magical sleep that would suspend her bodily functions to keep her from wasting away further. He did not wish to take such a step, to do so would only hinder the healing process further.

With a sigh, he went to the cook pit to stir the broth that Morrigan had set to simmer for the elven woman. Adela would need to awaken from her slumber soon.

DA:O

How long it took her to escape from the decimated Alienage Adela could not tell. She had no sense of time, trapped as she was in the Fade. She snorted slightly, wondering if it did her any favors knowing she was in the Fade rather than blissfully wander around in ignorance. She stopped to shake her head. No, best to know what danger she was in rather than wander around forever. Knowing she was in the Fade meant that she would have a chance of finding the escape.

She had passed through the Market District, taking note of the familiar faces therein, people she knew who paused in their actions to silently watch her pass by. The Chantry was all but deserted, and she went through the gates that cordoned off the district to the rest of the city.

She was now passing by the manor of the Arl of Denerim, and a cold shiver washed over her as she stared at the blank façade. This was the Fade; there were no answers to be found herein. Without another thought for the occupants of the manor, she continued onward.

Adela had determined that the Palace was where she would most likely find the exit from the Fade. Her conclusion came from the realization that her most vivid dreams were centered either around the palace itself or around various occupants therein. Loghain was the foremost-centralized figure, but she had dreams of Cailan and Anora as well. She paused as she stared up at the familiar iron wrought gates, her thoughts of concern for the queen nearly overtaking her. A gentle shake of her blond head, and the elven warden passed through the unmanned gates and walked up the marble stairway.

She paused, staring in confusion at the double doors that led into the palace. That they were standing, wide open and torn from their hinges alerted the elf that something was roaming the Fade with her, something not quite friendly. Pulling her daggers free of their sheaths, she stepped into the gray dimness of the palace.

Elven eyes adjusted quickly to the dank darkness she found therein. Her eyes swept over the ruin of the once immaculate receiving area, taking note of the battered stairway and crumbling arches of the various alcoves. She stepped silently into the waiting room that was set up as a mini library. The room was virtually untouched. Frowning, she left the room, keeping into the shadows as she passed each alcove and room to check for any signs of life. Each room, each space gave forth the same result: empty.

She paused by the large double doors that allowed entry deeper into the public areas of the palace. Deciding against that course now, she mounted the stairs, seeking to gain admittance into the private living quarters.

The young elven rogue kept well to the lessons taught by the bard and assassin she traveled with. Keeping well into the shadows, moving as quietly as a shadow herself, she made her way toward Anora’s chambers. As she neared the suite of rooms, she could hear the sounds of anguished sobbing. A frown crossed her face and she paused, listening. She had only heard Anora cry is such a heartbreaking manner twice before. The first had been when Loghain had finally declared Maric dead, having been lost at sea over five years ago. Then, a barely teenaged Adela had sat with the young noblewoman as she cried over the loss of king and someone who had been very important in her life. The second time had been when the child of Cailan and Anora had been perished at childbirth. Although there had been at least two other miscarriages, the young prince, Declan, had been born and lived for several minutes after his birth. The king and queen had been heartbroken as they had to sit and hold their young son, waiting as the final breaths left his tiny, ill formed lungs.

Adela did not like the heart wrenching sounds then; she hated them passionately now.

She crept up to the door that she knew opened into Anora’s main chamber. The sobbing was directly behind the door. She tried the knob, but it would not move. Crouching, she reached up and pulled her pins from her braid, seeking to pick the lock. She scowled at the door. There was no lock. She rose, examining the door and its frame, trying in vain to ignore the heart wrenching sounds of the queen crying. Running delicate, sensitive fingers over the frame, she realized that it was not a door at all, but simply an impression of a door. Solid marble stood before her.

Resisting the urge to curse, she carefully called out Anora’s name. The only reply was further sobs. Glancing about, she risked raising her voice, again calling out the queen’s name. Anora’s sobs only increased in volume, drowning out the elf’s voice. Scowling, Adela turned away, certain she would neither be able to enter the room or get Anora’s attention.

She turned about and headed toward the wing wherein lay the suites and study of Loghain. Previous experience suggested she might be able to gain entrance to his rooms.

Skipping lightly over the debris and rubble that was strewn across the floors, Adela made her way toward Loghain’s suites. The sounds of male voices, raised in anger or argument, reached her ears. She quickened her pace, arriving just at Loghain’s door.

“Ah, Loghain,” purred a smooth, cultured voice. The elf frowned. That voice sounded vaguely familiar…”You act ever as the petulant child.” She thought she heard a ‘tsking’ sound. “Be careful. Your commoner roots are showing.” That last said with a scathing belittling tone of voice.

Loghain replied in a low, angry voice that the elf recognized all too well. She could not make out what he was saying, and so stepped forward to press one delicate ear to the door. The voices continued, that familiar one nagging at her. It sounded similar to Alistair and Cailan, yet lower, deeper, more like Maric’s. She frowned at that. It also had the same sarcastic quality all three men had, yet where their sarcasm came from self-deprecation or a need to make people laugh, this one had a biting quality, an undertone meant to cut and rend the listener. Footsteps alerted her that someone approached the door, and, after a quick glance around, she ducked into a nearby doorway, pressing her slender body against the wood of the door, blending into the shadows as well as she could.

Peeking around the frame, she watched as a blond man, taller and broader than Cailan, but not as large as Alistair, bent to lock the door to Loghain’s room. She pressed her hand against her mouth as she caught a brief glance of the man’s profile. He then turned and walked away, back toward the direction the elf had come from.

Adela stood there for many moments, trying to digest what she had just seen. That man looked so much like Cailan, more so like Alistair, and almost exactly like Maric that there was no question as to whom he was. At least, who his father was. A sick, empty feeling rumbled in her belly at the thought that Maric had another son running around, this one obviously a foe of Loghain and perhaps Anora as well.

Steadying herself, she stepped toward the door just exited from. Bending low, she pulled a pick from her hair, and began to work at the lock.

DA:O

Alistair stood by the doorway, watching as Niall and Morrigan fed Adela the concoction Morrigan had brewed. The warden had to admit, even Morrigan’s potions tasted better than many of the meals he prepared.

Niall glanced up, seeming to take note of the man for the first time. With an encouraging smile, he motioned for Alistair to step in. Sheepishly, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the young man stepped to the bedside of the elf, gazing down at her still face.

“She remains in a restful sleep,” Niall whispered as Morrigan wiped Adela’s mouth and then removed the bowl. “I still have no idea why she hasn’t awakened yet, nor when she will.”

Alistair could almost hear the ‘if she will’ in Niall’s voice. He shook his head, clearing away that thought. Both mages, along with Adelaine and others from the village, had been working to keep the elf alive. Her injuries had all healed, and Niall confirmed that the brain injury she had suffered had corrected itself. They would only know if any lasting damage had been done once the elf woke.

He barely nodded, taking a seat near Adela, pulling it so that he was directly at her side. Niall offered the younger man a soft smile and then left the room to allow them some privacy.

The young human reached over and picked up one of Adela’s limp hands in his. He turned it over, marveling at how small her hand was, how long and delicate her fingers, and how pale her skin had become. He placed it palm down into his own palm, taking in just how much bigger he was to her; he thought he could easily fit three of her tiny hands within one of his gigantic paws. He frowned, scowling at his hand. How could he truly expect such a delicate creature to even consider loving someone as gargantuan as himself? He was clumsy, a brute, where she was delicate and graceful, dancing through battles where he merely plunged straight in. He was awkward in all situations that even remotely involved speech, and the elf, one who should be nervous when speaking with others, usually took over what conversation was being held, and could usually turn a dissenting opinion into an acknowledging one.

He sighed, bending down to place a lingering kiss upon her forehead. Regardless of how monstrous he felt next to her, she held his heart within those tiny hands of hers. Remaining bent over her still form, he closed his eyes, shutting off the tears that threatened, offering up a prayer to the Maker for her quick recovery. He missed her. Not for her leadership abilities, but for her. He missed her smile, her quiet voice. He missed watching her fingers and hands as she worked on another carving for one of the members of their tight knit group. A hand strayed to the griffon hung around his neck. Moving lower, he placed a kiss upon her cold lips, whispering, “Please return to us, Adela,” he cringed at the pleading tone he heard in his voice. “Please return to me.” Placing another kiss, he rose, sitting back in his seat as he continued to hold her limp, cold hand in his larger, warmer one.

[SheilaD67]

Thanks for the alerts, the favorites, and especially the reviews! Arsinoe de Blassenville, Biff McLaughlin, zevgirl, Eriana10, mutive! I’ve also noticed a C2 for this story (have no idea what that is!) and that more favorites keep coming up on a near regular basis. Folks, you have no idea how much that means to me. That something came out of my head and folks actually like it? Too cool for words, I tell you!

This chapter was very difficult to write. I know it’s a little confusing as we follow the whole puzzle solving steps, but hopefully it will make sense in the end.

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 32

　
She could hear shouting and screaming ahead, and pulled her bow from her shoulder as Roland and the Sten pulled their own blades free of sheaths. Hafter crouched low, a deep rumble starting from his chest and escaping quiver lips in a menacing growl. Without a glance to each other, the four raced toward where the sounds of an unbalanced battle came from.

Racing through snow proved slightly daunting for the larger men, but the nimble bard and agile war dog had no such problems. Arriving ahead of the warriors, Leliana took note of the battle as she quickly nocked an arrow, sending it flying at the hurlock closest to the dwarven man who seemed barely able to hold the sword he now wielded. A smaller dwarven male, barely more than a child if she guessed correctly, stood off to the side, firing off a crossbow into the midst of the darkspawn attackers.

Growling, Hafter launched himself at an approaching hurlock, his powerful jaws clamping down, sinking massive teeth into the unarmored flesh of the monster’s neck. His weight bore the creature down to the ground, and, with a quick savage shake of his head, tore the throat of the hurlock out. Wasting no further time, the great warhound pushed off the flailing body, leaving the darkspawn to bleed out as he sought another victim.

As Leliana felled three darkspawn, Roland and the Sten barreled their way into the fray. She heard rather than saw Roland’s shield impact with the face of an oncoming darkspawn, and the Sten’s great war cry echoed off the naked trees surrounding them. An arrow planted into the eye of the hurlock fast approaching her, and she twisted, nocking another arrow as she targeted on another foe.

The young dwarf held his own against the darkspawn, gleefully shooting bolt after bolt into any that approached him or the older dwarf. The one holding the sword seemed to have recovered from his fright and, perhaps bolstered by the arrival of skilled reinforcements, started to whittle away at the hurlock that taunted him.

An arrow whizzed by, embedding itself deeply into the chest of a hurlock the bard had not noticed. Confused, she retraced the arrow’s trajectory, somewhere deep into the surrounding trees. Skilled eyes scanned for any movement or shape, but could not discern any. Frowning, not about to curse her savior, the bard turned back to the fray, firing off shot after shot with skill, mindful of any other foreign arrows that sped into their midst.

The battle, if it could truly be called that, was over in mere minutes. The four accomplished killers of darkspawn looked around, satisfied that all were dead. The bard shook her head; they would need to build a pyre and burn the bodies before they continued. If Adela learned they simply left bodies unattended to blight the land…

The bard sighed, trying to shake herself of the melancholy she felt when her thoughts shifted to the elf. Adela was strong, she reassured herself as she slipped her bow back over her shoulder and stepped to join Roland’s side. The former knight stood in front of the dwarves, talking the situation with them.

“Mighty timely arrival, my friend,” the dwarf spoke in friendly, genuine tones, the younger one gazing up at Roland in near hero worship. “Mighty timely. Name’s Bodahn Feddic. This here,” he gestured toward the young dwarf. “Is my son, Sandal.” He smiled up at the three as they stood in a protective semi-circle around the dwarves and their wagon.

Roland bowed his head slightly. “I’m Warden Roland,” Ser Gilmore apparently decided to take the title of Warden rather than Recruit. Leliana grinned at that. “These are Leliana,” the bard offered her sweetest smile, and both dwarves responded with pleasant ones of their own, “and the Sten.” The giant merely offered the slightly of glances, his eyes going back to their scanning of their surroundings.

“Warden, eh?” Bodahn’s pleasant demeanor took on an even more respectful mien. “An honor, absolute honor to make your acquaintance.”

Leliana almost giggled when she saw the blush come across Roland’s features. “Well, I’m merely a recruit at this time,” he just could not allow it to lie, she thought.

“Recruit or not, the Wardens are a well respected organization,” Bodahn responded with a smile. “The only surfacer order that understands on any level the true nature of the darkspawn.”

After taking a few minutes to talk further, whereupon they learned that the Feddic men were merchants without a clear destination, the group, aided by supplies from the merchant’s wagon, set about building a pyre and set the bodies of the darkspawn ablaze. By the time the final embers failed, it was decided that Bodahn and Sandal would accompany the group to Redcliffe, there to either wait out the storms or plot a new route that avoided the darkspawn held south.

As the dwarven pair turned to repack their wagon, Leliana pulled Roland aside, leading him to where the alien arrow remained, embedded in the darkspawn’s chest. His red brow furrowed as he tore the projectile free, studying the length and fletch - green and white - of the missile. Leliana noted a confused look cross his face, and decided to question him further once they were safely away or carefully ensconced at Redcliffe.

DA:O

The lock was difficult to pick, but her efforts were rewarded by the clicking sounds of the tumblers falling into place. Rising, she twisted the brass knob, breathing a sigh of relief when it twisted, unlatching the door. With a quick glance around, Adela stepped into the room, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.

Her eyes did a quick scan of the room, noting that a warm fire blazed in the fireplace, and that at the table laden with food sat the bowed figure of Loghain. A frown crossed her face as she paced her way to stand at the opposite end of the table. If he heard her approach, the man made no sign of it.

“Loghain,” Adela quietly said, remaining in place, not wanting to approach the man. The Teyrn raised his head from his hands, staring up at the astonished elf.

Loghain looked…horrible. His skin had taken on a yellow pallor and his face was etched with more lines than she ever recalled being there. Worry had mapped its way across his normally stoic features, and she noted that his face was thinner than usual. His hair, normally dark, glossy and neatly in place, fell in lank locks about his face. His clothing were rumpled; his posture slumped. Yet his eyes remained as they always were: alert, clear, intelligent and scrutinizing.

“Loghain,” the elf repeated her eyes full of sympathy for her old friend. “What has happened to you?”

Those same eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned the young elf from head to foot. “The same may be said of you, Adela,” he said gruffly, obviously taking note of the thinner lines the elf’s body had taken.

She frowned, offering a slight shrug. “I fell to a high dragon,” she offered as explanation, watching as Loghain’s eyes widened slightly. “Not that I think I’m dead.” Her own blue eyes, deep and penetrating, gazed around his room. “Strange,” she murmured as she stepped around, noting that the once nearly empty book shelf now housed several volumes, mostly containing Fereldan history. “The palace seems to be in ruins, and yet your room remains intact.” Her eyes settled upon Loghain once more, taking in the surprised expression upon his face.

Loghain remained silent, watching as the elven woman took in the condition of him and his room. Her eyes settled upon his fully, watching as he sat silently. A thought came to her mind, and a frown formed between her brows.

“Who was that man I saw leaving your chambers?” she asked as she took the chair opposite the silent man.

A fierce scowl formed upon Loghain’s face, and Adela was actually pleased to see some of Loghain’s strength come through at last. “That,” he spat, leaning forward, his eyes intense and set upon the elf’s, “is Arawn.”

“Another son of Maric?”

Apparently, her perceptiveness surprised Loghain for his brows shot up. With a slow nod, he replied, “Indeed.”

She could not stifle down the bitter disappointment she felt for the dead monarch; the man who had been briefly a friend and a link to her mother‘s past, the man who had been their king, who had liberated them from Orlais, and ruled as best as he could. The bitterness was tinged, she knew, with the knowledge that Alistair had been all but abandoned, and he had been conceived and birthed long after Queen Rowan’s death. This one, this Arawn, appeared to be of an age to Cailan, which meant that Maric had an affair during his noble queen’s life. She knew her own disappointment well; it was reflected in Loghain’s eyes, even now, after he had lived with this knowledge for so long.

Given what she had seen thus far, heard, and witnessed, Adela believed that Niall was correct. Staring at the Teyrn, she reached over and placed her small hands upon his, clasped before him tightly. His pale blue eyes shifted downward, staring at her tiny hands.

“This is your prison, isn’t it?” she finally asked, startling him out of his reverie. She continued to watch his reaction. He slowly raised his head, his eyes once again meeting her own. When he did not reply, she continued. “Niall, one of the mages I travel with, is convinced that I am Fade sensitive.” She shrugged, giving a slight laugh. “He’s amazed and keeps hounding me to let him test the theory.” She leaned forward, brushing a hand across Loghain’s face. He blinked, but remained silent. “I’m thinking that I don’t need to do that.”

She leaned back in her chair, frowning. “So, what, exactly, is Arawn up to?”

The fire in the fireplace crackled, the only sound in the room for several moments. Loghain was obviously fighting against his nature to remain silent and not to give in to what he obviously believed was a mere illusion. Adela silently scolded herself for not noticing before how much like Sloth’s Fade this felt like. The complete awareness, the lack of the dreamy unreality of it all. She felt like she was, physically, sitting in Loghain’s rooms, and she quickly squelched the thought that rose to her mind of other dreams. After all, since that time she had found herself dreaming and thinking of a different man entirely.

Yet, here sat Loghain, a prisoner, obviously, and not some simulacrum created by a malevolent denizen of the Fade. His haggard appearance and stoic silence, told her that this was Loghain. Trapped in a torment that he could not break free of.

After a time, Loghain finally spoke, and told the elf, in detail, what he knew of Arawn. She was surprised how much Loghain knew of the man himself, but how little he could tell her of Anora’s well being, the occurrences in the Alienage, and the general state of the nation as it faced a Blight. For her part, Adela told Loghain as little as possible, merely confirming that she and Alistair yet lived, and were working on gathering allies in an attempt to stop the Blight.

Loghain pressed for her location. She shook her head, “I can’t tell you, Loghain.” She frowned at the scowl that formed on his face. “If you are being controlled by this maleficar, then it is possible he will be able to get this information from you.” She tilted her head slightly at him. ”We just cannot risk that.” The Teyrn’s face settled somewhat, nodding his agreement.

“Do you truly believe this is a Blight?” the Teyrn asked, his eyes sharp, the haggard look upon his face easing slightly.

With a firm nod, Adela responded, “The skies have not yet blighted,” she replied confidently, “but I believe that, by winter’s end, more physical signs, other than the darkspawn running around the countryside, will be evident.”

The chair creaked as Loghain settled back, never taking his eyes from Adela’s face. “Neither Cailan or I truly believed that this was a Blight,” he conceded, his voice rough and gravely. “It seems that we may have been wrong.”

“Does this Arawn believe it is a Blight?” Adela asked, a frown forming on her lips. If this blood mage did not believe it was a Blight, then they would continue to be fighting two fronts. Loghain’s response was a mere shrug of his broad shoulders.

Adela rose and began pacing the floor. So, Loghain was not acting against them, but was some blood mage’s puppet. She had seen blood magic at work - both at Redcliffe and then again at Haven. Growing up, she had heard stories and rumors about how a mage could control a person, and that was the reasoning behind the Chantry’s imprisonment of all mages. Her feet stopped, and she turned to study Loghain.

During their visit, his appearance had become less haggard and more resilient. He sat still, watching her. “Have you tried to leave your rooms recently?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Once,” he admitted, his eyes searching the girl’s face. “I had awoken after the last dream I had of you,” she felt her face heat in a flush, and Loghain’s dark brow rose. “The door, of course, was locked.”

“How about here?” she pressed, ignoring her embarrassment, hoping Loghain did not notice.

“I saw no reason to attempt it since my earlier days spent in this prison,” he admitted.

Dumbfounded, she stood there, staring at her friend. “Maybe I was wrong,” she finally stated, more heat in her voice than she intended. “Perhaps this is just a dream. After all, the Loghain I know would never just give up on a possible escape!” These last words came out as a hiss between her teeth, and she was surprised at how angry she was at him.

“What escape?” Loghain asked, rising to his feet, yet maintaining a calm that surprised the elf.

“There is always a way out of the Fade,” Adela explained just as calmly, letting her initial anger and disappointment fade. “That’s why demons and other Fade denizens will work so hard to keep you in one place. Because if left on our own, we will eventually find the exit, and, once in the prime plane, they can’t touch those of us who are not mages.”

“You can’t be Adela,” Loghain remarked. “How would you know so much about the Fade?”

“Niall has been instructing me since I pulled him free of the Circle Tower,” she admitted smugly. “Since he’s convinced I am Fade sensitive he’s been almost fanatical about my learning as much as possible so that I won’t get trapped.” She tilted her head at Loghain. “Come on,” she held her hand out to him, gesturing him to follow. “I think that it’s time for you to start seeking your own exit.”

She turned away from him, not waiting to find out if he would, indeed, follow. She opened the door, relieved that the corridors continued to remain empty. She heard Loghain move behind her, and she hid a grin. Without a word, she stepped into the hallway, glancing up and down the length of it before turning to where she knew Loghain’s study stood.

The man’s firm steps resounded behind her, and she was glad that he did not question her decision but merely followed. She was certain this was Loghain; his time trapped in the Fade, loosing so much of him to the blood mage, and being isolated from everything and everyone else had taken its toll on the stubborn man.

They found his study to be in the same shape as his room - untouched, unscathed, completely as it appeared in reality. Loghain headed straight for his desk while Adela roamed the room, staring at the maps she had stared at since childhood. She could hear Loghain rummage through papers in the drawers of his desk, but did not stop to ask what he was looking for. He had obviously gotten over his idea that being the Fade made him helpless. She paused in front of an old map, one that detailed a Fereldan as it was drawn out at the time of the Silver Knight, Calenhad. This had always been her favorite, with Highever being the only discernable feature. However, the elegant sweeps of quill gave her an insight as to the ancient cartographer’s idea of how Fereldan appeared. A bit unrealistic, with larger land mass and higher mountains, but lovely none the less.

She noticed that the shuffling of paper ceased, and she turned to find Loghain holding a piece of parchment in his hand. Frowning, curious, the elf stepped closer, staring at the paper.

It appeared blank to her. She raised questioning eyes to Loghain. His face is still, stoic, but she thought she could see a hint of despair therein as well. Whatever he had expected to be on that paper was gone.

“This is the Fade,” she reminded the man as he tossed the parchment down upon the desk. “Most of what is here are from your own memories. You,” she pointed a finger at him. “brought me here. The palace as it is…Anora in her chambers…they are all a result of your own mind telling you what is happening, even if you cannot see it or remember it.” She glanced down at the parchment, frowning. “What was on the parchment?” she asked.

Loghain scowled at it. “You recall Maric’s adventure with the Grey Wardens, the one that caused a whole slew of things to happen,” she smiled weakly at that. The Grey Wardens being allowed back into Fereldan; Maric’s rejuvenated rule of Fereldan; his frequent communications with the Grey Wardens…

“Of course,” she replied, “it was one of Maric’s favorite stories to tell me.”

Loghain turned to the girl. “I was placed as regent during his little escapades. Each time he felt the need to go off away from the throne, away from his duties, he would saddle me with the responsibilities. When he went on that fool voyage…” his voice trailed off as he got lost in memories, recalling how, months after the reports that the vessel he had been on had been lost, wreckage found along a string of islands, he had to call the Landsmeet that would start the process of putting Cailan on the throne. He bent his head down, sorrow and grief suddenly flooding his senses.

He felt Adela’s hand on his arm, tugging at him. “Stop that, Loghain,” she scolded harshly. “That’s how Arawn retains hold on you. Your memories, grief, regrets…powerful emotions that the mage can latch onto, weaken you as you weaken yourself.”

Dark head rose, blue eyes settled upon the determined features of the little elven Warden. He smirked. “So it would seem,” he admitted, glancing back at the empty page. “That,” he indicated the sheet, “held instructions of which I was to follow, as regent, to secure the throne for Anora, should Cailan predecease her.” He shook his head. “I have no idea why the page would be blank now.”

Staring at the page, her mind working through the puzzle, Adela found herself at a loss. “Maybe it’s because you can’t remember,” she offered quietly, lifting her gaze. “Since this prison is of your making…”

But Loghain shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that’s it,” he corrected, moving away from the desk, taking up the pacing where Adela had left off. “There’s something we are both overlooking.” He stopped and turned, staring at the elf. “This is a prison Arawn created to toss me into whenever he used my body as a puppet to rule as regent, or for those times when I was unneeded in any sense and he would lock me away in my chambers.” He stepped forward, taking the parchment from Adela’s hand, staring at it. “This could mean that either Arawn was not aware of these instructions…”

Ice coursed in her veins as she realized Loghain’s train of thought, “Or he had already found the instructions and was implementing them himself.”

Loghain scowled. “To what end?” he demanded, throwing the page down once more.

Adela shook her head. “To what end, indeed,” she said, unconsciously mimicking Loghain. “After all, Anora was crowned Queen, not Queen-Consort. Upon Cailan’s death, she would retain the throne and rule of Fereldan.”

“With the approval of the Landsmeet,” the commoner-turned-noble reminded the young elf with a frown. Loghain turned and sat down, his scowl deepening, creating great lines in his face. “There are those in the Landsmeet who would love nothing more than to see anyone else on that throne other than someone of commoner blood.” He frowned. “There had been an attempt once to place Bryce Cousland upon the throne. The same could occur again.”

Adela scoffed at that. After all, didn’t all of the nobles in Fereldan start as commoners at one time in their history? “Unfortunately, Bryce Cousland is dead,” she frowned at the surprised look Loghain cast her. “We found a survivor of Howe’s treachery.” Loghain merely nodded, trying to come to terms that the little elf seemed to know quite a bit of what was occurring.

“Loghain,” Adela stepped to stand in front of the seated man. “We know that this Arawn is seeking power for himself. That he’s Maric’s son gives him some power, although his being a mage makes his direct ascension to the throne problematic. Is it possible that he seeks to force a marriage between himself and Anora?”

“You said it yourself, Adela,” Loghain replied quietly, “he is a mage. Mages cannot assume titles, even if that mage is the son of a king.”

“I usually disagree with the Chantry’s treatment of others, but in this case, I’m rather glad they made that particular law.” A long finger tapped against her chin. “Have you any feel that he may be forcing another under his control to marry Anora?”

“Howe would be a logical choice,” Loghain grudgingly admitted, “He is now the Teyrn of Highever, second only to the king. If he married Anora, I doubt many in the Landsmeet would oppose such a pairing. And, he is allied with the bastard.”

“There are still too many holes, too much missing for that to be an adequate theory,” the elf shook her head, sighing heavily. “The first thing you need to do, Loghain, is to learn this prison’s exits. Once you can start freeing yourself from the Fade you can start to fight against the blood mage’s control of yourself.”

They both fell silent, trying to digest too much in such a small frame of time. Loghain broke the silence.

“You must return now, Adela,” he said firmly. When she looked up at him in confusion, he clarified, “By the looks of you, you are wasting away by remaining here. If I’m the one that called you here, then I am releasing you.” She looked about to protest and he persisted. “I promise to look for these exits you tell me exist. I will seek ways to strengthen myself against both the imprisonment and blood control. However, you need to continue fighting against the Blight as you have been.” he stepped forward, placing both hands on her shoulders. “I could never forgive myself if you remained and continued to waste away, to die.”

She felt something loosen at her core, and she frowned slightly, and then realized that Loghain was releasing her. Looking up into his face, she remarked, “Well done, Loghain. It seems that you do believe that this is truly me.” She smiled at the smirk that crossed his features. “The more you explore, the more you challenge things here,” she waved a hand to indicate their surroundings, “the easier it will be for you to find the exits.”

Loghain bent down, touching his lips lightly to hers. “Just wake up, Adela,” he whispered, stepping back to watch as the elf faded from view.

Alone once again, but feeling more empowered than he had since before Ostagar, the Teyrn left his study to begin his first exploration of the palace.

DA:O

He spent most of his time by her side, watching for any signs that she would awaken. But, as more time passed, the more the others needed him - his leadership, attention and muscle. So, the less time he spent where his heart lay.

They had cleared out the Chantry of most of the unpleasant evidence of the cult; bodies had been burned, a proper service performed for those who died. Once the Chantry had been made livable, they had then turned their attention toward the village. Winter had hit hard and fast, and many of the dead had been the men folk, leaving behind only a few men, most of the women and all of the children. Not an overwhelming number, a few dozen at best. Zevran spent much time away from the village hunting, bringing his catch back to the village for distribution. Alistair helped consolidate households, forgoing the smaller homes on the outskirts of the village and bringing in several families to the larger homes closer to the Chantry. Roofs were repaired, door latches secured, windows fully shuttered, firewood chopped and stacked at each dwelling. Niall and Morrigan, on shifts, would gather what herbs remained blooming before the frost took them and made certain that various potions and poultices were created and on hand.

This day found Alistair atop a roof, whipping his head about in order to keep it free from the flurrying snow, as he made slight repairs to the home’s chimney. Some of the bricks had come loose and, not wanting to risk a chimney fire, he took the task in hand and made the repairs. Some discomfort was well worth the knowledge that the two families dwelling therein would remain safe and warm.

Quickly scampering down the ladder, he poked his head in through the front door to let Selena, the eldest woman of the village, know that the repairs had been made and he was heading back to the Chantry. Shaking her head, she pressed two loaves of fresh baked peasant bread into his hands, bidding him a fair evening as she turned to stir the rabbit stew. Grinning, appreciating the smell of the fresh baked bread, Alistair gently closed and latched the door before turning uphill to the Chantry.

About half way up he encountered Zevran, just back from a very successful hunt. The elf reported he had managed to supply each household with three rabbits, more than enough for a stew that would last the household a few days. Clapping the smaller man on the shoulder, Alistair hurried up the hill, anxious to get out of the blustering snowfall.

Snow fluttered in through the doors as Alistair and Zev entered the Chantry, creating a tiny hurricane of the fluttery stuff. Pulling the doors closed, Alistair shook out his fur lined cape before removing it, hanging it upon the hooks nearby. Stomping his feet to clear them of snow, the large man presented Morrigan with the loaves, continuing on his way to Adela’s room.

His hands brushed quickly through his hair, now damp from the melted snow. His light brown eyes settled upon Adela’s form, and he paused, really looking at her. Her color seemed to be pinker than it had been, and he was certain she was in a different position, more to her right side now rather than flat on her back. Then, thinking perhaps either Niall or Morrigan had shifted her to prevent bed sores, he stepped closer, taking his customary seat by her side, picking up her hand to hold in his.

Again he paused, staring at the tiny appendage in his hand. Her hand was definitely warmer than it had been.

“Wishful thinking,” he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed upon her hand, giving it a slight squeeze.

“What’s wishful thinking?” came a soft, hoarse question from the side.

His head whipped around, eyes fixing upon Adela’s face, watching in disbelief as her eyelids fluttered open. It took her several moments before her eyes could fix upon the man seated beside her, but once they had, a wide, soft smile crossed her face.

“Alistair?” she whispered, blinking rapidly.

Unable to speak, Alistair fell to his knees, scooping the elf into his arms, hugging her tightly against him. Adela chuckled softly, a hand raising to weakly brush against his shoulder.

“Not too tightly, Alistair,” she protested, her voice painfully weak.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said as he loosened his grip, caught between laughing and crying. His body seemed to think itself capable of both and he found tears falling down his cheeks as he laughed. “You’ve had us all scared, you know,” he playfully scolded the elf, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. “You had me scared.”

“I’m sorry,” the elf apologized, exhaustion heavy in her voice.

Alistair raised his head, watching as Niall, Morrigan and Zevran entered the room. Grinning like a fool, Alistair proceeded to inform their friends that Adela was awake. Zevran laughed while both mages merely shook their heads, both approaching, scolding Alistair to release her so that they could examine her. Reluctantly, the human released her, easing her gently upon the pillows, watching as the mages sent their searching magic into the girl. Adela’s eyes, heavy, fluttered closed, and her breathing relaxed, falling into a soft rhythm. A slight wave of panic hit Alistair and Morrigan assured him that she was fine, that even though she had been unconscious for weeks, her body was still quite tired.

Nodding his head, Alistair could only offer up his silent prayers of thanks to the Maker as Morrigan shifted Adela’s position, a slight, gentle smile across her lips.

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone for their wonderful reviews: Nithu, tgail73, Arsinoe de Blassenville, mutive, Eriana10

As always, this is not canon. And, as of yet, BioWare has not seen reason and signed over this universe and all properties over to me. Harrumph! How rude!

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 33

She was comfortable, more comfortable than she could remember. Snuggling deeper into the warm, soft mattress, she tried hard to ignore the sounds that flowed softly yet persistently along her peripheral senses. There it was again! Resisting the urge to cover her head with her pillow, the elven woman slowly opened her eyes.

It was still quite dark in the room, and looking around, she saw that no one else was awake. The fire in the fireplace was starting to die down, and she frowned, thinking she would need to rise and place some more wood on the fire, but knowing full well everyone would likely be upset that she took it upon herself to do so. With a shrug, she weakly rose, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Clad in a long nightshirt, the chill air sent shivers up her bare legs.

There was that noise again! She lifted her eyes from her feet, scanning her room. Wait? Was that…Alistair? Yes, sure enough, the young warden was what could only barely be described as seated in the room’s sole cushioned chair, his red-gold head tilted back against the back of the chair. Eyes closed, mouth wide open, his arms resting upon the armrests, his legs and feet splayed out upon the floor. And that Maker’s awful noise was him snoring!

Giggling, she sat there, simply taking in the view of the handsome man by the dim light of the fire. Over the months, his close cropped hair had grown out slightly, and now tickled along the tips of his ears and down his neck. She was actually quite glad it had grown out from the cow lick at the front (that he had so painfully maintained during their early days together) to sweep lightly to the side, curling around his face just slightly. She felt a slight quiver in her belly as she watched Alistair’s eyelids flutter slightly, and then he shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as he tried to find another comfortable position to sleep in, twisting down, his shoulder resting firmly against the chair‘s backing.

Shaking her head, the elf pushed herself from the bed, rising unsteadily to her feet. She was grateful that Morrigan and Niall had foreseen the need to keep her muscles and joints from atrophying and had insisted upon exercising her limbs even while she was unconscious. These past few days had been spent mostly in bed, but with either Morrigan or Niall as they slowly worked to rehabilitate her limbs. Although she lacked strength, at least she wasn’t also fighting stiff muscles and joints, or complete immobility.

Scowling briefly down at her feet, she willed them to move forward. Hesitantly, with small steps, she made her way over to the chair. Sighing, she placed her hands on the now vacant armrest of the chair, and gently lowered herself to the floor.

“Alistair,” she whispered, placing a small hand upon his thick forearm, giving a gentle shake. He snorted in reply, twisting slightly under her hand. She smiled, brushing a hand up and over his face, thumbing gently at the small scar at the corner of his mouth.

Again she called out his name, raising her voice, still very weak from non-use, giving him another shake. Slowly, those wonderful eyes opened, hazy with confusion and sleep. He twisted his head around, his gaze finally resting upon the kneeling elf.

“Adela?” he whispered, rising in his seat, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Smiling at him, she shrugged. “You were snoring,” she responded with a giggle, poking him in the chest with one slender finger. “And you did not look very comfortable sleeping there.”

He blinked, then turned his attention to the fire. “Oh, the fire needs some wood,” he said as he pushed himself upright, pulling Adela to her feet and planting her onto the now vacant chair as he moved to the fire.

“Alistair,” Adela called as he settled logs upon the coals. “Have you been sleeping here every night?”

He shrugged, paying close attention to what he was doing at the fireplace. Adela shook her head. “Don’t you have your own room?”

Turning, he offered her a wide grin, then bent to lift her gently into his arms. There was that flutter again, only more intense as she felt his strong arms wrap around her. “I do,” he admitted as he deposited her just as gently onto her bed. “But, it’s not really quite set up.” He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck, obviously embarrassed by that admission.

Smiling up at him, she shifted over onto the bed. It was huge, much bigger than a cot, bigger than the bed she had at home in Denerim. “Why is your room not ‘quite set up’ yet?” She asked, smoothing the blankets over her. “We’ve been here for weeks.” The bed shifted slightly as Alistair’s weight settled upon it.

He shrugged again, his eyes shifting to her hands. He then placed one of his hands atop hers, and began to gently rub the back of her hand with a finger. “Been too busy during the day,” She recalled him and the others telling her about how they had settled in the village. “And at night…well…I just wanted to make sure that you’d be alright. So, I just…kind of…settled in here.”

“You should have had a bed set up in here, then,” she pointed out, her free hand waving to indicate the size of the room. “This room is big enough for three or four beds.”

“Ha,” he chuckled slightly, “never really thought of that.” His eyes fixed upon hers. “I suppose you’d rather I go somewhere else, then?” he asked, a hint of something in his voice Adela could not quite identify.

Her blue eyes blinked, and she felt her ears heat up slightly. Glad it was fairly dark in the room, save for the weak light put out by the fireplace, she was fairly certain she was blushing. Shaking her head, she patted the empty space by her. “You could…always settle in here,” not only were her ears heating up, but she felt a pressure in her head and her chest constricted slightly.

Alistair paused, staring at her. “You sure about that?” he asked quietly.

“Of course, silly,” she responded, trying to sound light and carefree. “It’s not like we’ve never slept next to each other before.”

“Heh, you’re right,” he said. Then his eyes searched her face a bit longer and then he nodded. Turning, he toed his boots from his feet, and then slid under the blankets next to the elf. He turned to face her, making certain that she was covered. Then, as though an after thought, he pulled her against him, pulling one of her arms across his chest as he brought his hand up to cradle the back of her head.

Her heart was now fully pounding, and she was certain Alistair could feel it. Letting out a deep, long sigh, she relaxed against his strong chest, reveling in the feel of his hand stroking the back of her head, feeling his warm breath fluttering the wispy hairs along her forehead. The gentle motion of his hand relaxed her, and she fell back into a restful, nightmare free slumber.

DA:O

The next day dawned bright, the snow fall having stopped to offer the inhabitants of the diminished village a respite in the wintry weather. Adela was now seated in the chair Alistair had vacated the night prior, a woolen blanket draped over her knees, a bowl of porridge held in one hand as she slowly spooned the cereal to her mouth.

She had been impressed and amazed at the progress that had been done. She had teased Alistair lightly about how he was a natural leader and that she should take vacations more often. Alistair protested, strongly and loudly, demanding that she never put him in such a position again, that those kinds of vacations sent him in a near tizzy. Promising to do her best, she allowed him to settle her comfortably in the chair while he and the others bustled around with their usual morning chores.

Later that day found her tucked back into bed, numerous pillows piled behind her to help her retain a comfortable seated position. Alistair, forgoing his chair, sat cross legged upon the bed, telling her about the surviving villagers, sending Roland and the others off with the Ashes, and their plans for the winter.

Plans which mostly consisted of keeping the villagers safe and getting Adela back to full strength. She had only awakened a few days prior, and while healthier than either Niall or Morrigan had expected, there was a great weakness throughout her body, and she found herself tiring very quickly.

Now, fully ensconced in her bed, listening to Alistair, she found herself shaking her head, a long sigh escaping her lips.

Grinning sheepishly, she turned toward Alistair. “I feel a little embarrassed,” she answered his questioning gaze. “To have to be tended to for everything while I was unconscious…being so weak and useless now…” she shrugged her shoulders, letting Alistair shift the pillow behind her as she pushed herself further into a seated position. “I haven’t felt this helpless since I was a small child.”

Chuckling, Alistair brushed her cheek with one large hand. “We’re all helpless as children, Adela.” he said warmly.

“Yes, I know. But, I was a particularly sickly child and found myself more often than not confined to a bed,” she murmured.

Alistair frowned slightly at that. “What do you mean?” he asked.

There was a slight shrug of her shoulders, and her eyes drifted around her room, taking in the archways that separated the various sections of the room that had once been used by one of the cult’s leaders.

“I was very sickly as a baby,” she said, turning to settle her eyes upon Alistair’s concerned, open face. “I was born too early, and had nearly died at birth.” she chuckled slightly. “I remember Mamae and Papa telling me how precious I was, that I was their little miracle, and then they’d bundle me up against the cold. I never even touched snow until I had seen six winters.” Her eyes shifted away from him, hiding. “I’ve been told that’s why I’m as small as I am; most elven women stand taller than I. Mamae was very tall, taller than many men, almost as tall as a human man. And a warrior, so as soon as I was of an age, she began to train me with weapons. I never really had the strength for swords, so she gave me her old daggers.” She smiled I memory. “Mamae never seemed ashamed of me, merely kept training me at my own pace, encouraging me…” her voice trailed off sadly, the memory of her mother still strong after all these years.

The young human was astonished. To think that he may never have met Adela…that she may never had survived childhood? ”Did you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked instead, turning her thoughts away from her confined childhood.

“I did,” she said, then clarified. “Well, I would have. Papa had been married before he met Mamae. During the occupation. He had a lovely wife and two sons.” A sad expression crossed her face. “When Meghren learned that elves had joined Maric’s rebellion, he had ordered a purge of the Alienages - all of them throughout Fereldan. Papa’s wife and youngest son perished. A few years later, his eldest son broke into the palace, seeking revenge.” She sighed. “He was killed before he made it passed the kitchens.”

She could remember the sadness that crossed her father’s face when he had told her of his first wife and her brothers. Brothers! At that time, she had so dearly wanted a brother or a sister. Soris was great; he was like a big brother, but, he had his own mother and father, and then Shianni came along and he was her big brother. Then, after her mother died, Adela suddenly found herself in the position of being the guardian of the children of the Alienage.

“Mamae had trouble carrying a child in pregnancy,” she continued in a small voice. “She had lost several babies before I was born, and then afterwards…she couldn’t have any at all.” She smiled up at Alistair, an expression that did not reach her eyes. “I almost feel sorry for my father. With my being a Grey Warden, chances are likely he won’t even be able to have grandchildren.”

A tightness gripped Alistair’s gut. “Well,” he said, smiling a bit sadly. “Two Wardens together almost never have children. But, chances are a bit better if one of the parents is a non-Warden. So, if you were to be with someone who wasn’t a Warden, you may be able to have children.”

A strange expression crossed Adela’s face, one Alistair could not recognize. A combination of confusion, sadness and something else. But, she remained silent, picking listlessly at the fuzz from her blanket. Then, with a sigh, she settled back upon her pillows, offering her fellow warden as bright a smile as she could.

“So, fearless leader,” she teased, enjoying the color that flooded Alistair’s face. “What are the plans for today.”

Before he could respond, especially to the abrupt change in topic, Morrigan sauntered into the room, a steaming bowl of something held easily in her long, elegant hands. “The plans for you, Adela,” the witch replied as Alistair rose to allow room for her to settled next to Adela. “Are to eat, rest and recover.” The elf frowned heavily at the bowl in the witch’s hands.

“What is that?” the elf asked with trepidation. While Morrigan tried to make her concoctions taste somewhat palatable, they still retained a rather mediciny flavor and feel to them. Sometimes, regardless of how they tasted, the texture alone was enough to touch on the girl’s gag reflex.

And this concoction did not even smell pleasant.

“This,” the witch smirked at the elf, “is a soup that will help to build your muscles back up.” She handed it over and Adela took it, albeit hesitantly.

Both women ignored the grinning smirk on Alistair’s face as he resumed his place in what had become known as Alistair’s Chair.

Tentatively, Adela brought the spoon to her lips, her face pursing up as she swallowed the first spoonful. “That is awful, Morrigan!” she hissed out between her teeth, glaring at the witch, who merely watched, that damnably smug expression upon her face.

“Hmmm? Oh, ‘tis true the taste leaves much to be desired,” she acknowledged, rising. “However, if you are to regain your strength, and quickly, you will need to continue following my instruction, as well as Niall’s. Eventually, you will be able to rise from the bed for longer periods of time. I am certain that, eventually, you shall regain your strength enough to resume sparring.” She stood there a moment, one elegant brow quirked up, that haughty smirk the elf had become very familiar with gracing her lovely face. Their eyes met, a duel of will. However, Adela was tired, whereas Morrigan excelled in these kind of confrontations. With a graceful wave, she pointed a hand toward the bowl, that brow remaining up, the smirk not leaving.

With a sigh, knowing well that she wasn’t going to win any battles today, the elf began to spoon the awful concoction into her mouth.

DA:O

The Sten took point, his massive frame an easy landmark against the blinding snow. Rather than picking up his feet, he swept them forward, clearing a narrow path for the two humans to trudge along. The war beast needed no such assistance as he bounded along beside the great giant, happily barking as snow swept up into his face.

The Sten snorted, allowing a tiny smirk to cross his normally stoic features. The beast had proven a reliable ally; what harm in allowing him a moment of revelry? After all, regardless of how intelligent he was, he was still yet a beast.

The Qunari warrior glanced back at his human companions, a slight nod at their progress before he turned forward. The male had not surprised him overly much with his stamina and perseverance through the snow storms and difficult travel conditions. In fact, the Sten had expected no less of him. The female, however, had pleasantly surprised him. He had expected complaints and delays from the chantry sister, but she had displayed a remarkable ability to adapt to the most adverse of situations, and had not slowed their journey down as expected.

He snorted slightly at the sight of the dwarven merchant’s wagon that rattled along behind the warriors.

The Sten was beginning to think that, with the group the Elven Warden had gathered, they may well have a chance to defeat the Blight.

Now, if only they could locate the Archdemon, then this could all be concluded.

DA:O

Pulling her fur cloak tighter against her slender form, Leliana continued to hum the melody she had been working on for, well, for years really. Now that she had an adventure to put words to the music, she had resumed her work on it with fervor.

The Sten made a marvelous plow, she giggled as she lifted her head and watched the huge man plow through the snow drifts. Roland marched directly behind the Qunari warrior, his eyes ever alert, scanning the surrounding area. She was certain that, although he was prancing and pouncing along in the snow, Hafter was as aware of their surroundings as any of his two legged companions.

Then, as one, all four of the companions paused, heads lifted, eyes scanning the area. The rattling of the wagon behind them stopped as Bodahn pulled the matched pair of oxen to a halt.

Leliana pulled her bow from her shoulder, nocking an arrow, and then sighting along her arm as she pivoted about, eyes narrowed slightly as she searched the area. They had all felt it, the unnatural silence. And, there was a smell, one the Orlesian bard had become far too accustomed to.

Blood. Coppery, iron, tainted. It was faint, but certainly was present. She watched as Roland waved off to his right and then Sten, with a nod, plowed off in that direction. Roland glanced back at the bard and, with a nod, turned to his left to scout.

She could hear the dwarves rummaging around behind her, pulling out crossbows and tightening the lever back as they set their bolts. The bard had never even learned how to use one of the dwarven made weapons; although they had more power than a standard short or long bow, they were slower to reload as it took strength to crank the projector back. She also felt that using the weapon put the archer in a more compromising position - with a bow the archer remained standing straight, alert; using the crossbow tended to bend the posture, allowing the eyes to leave the surrounding areas and thus make it possible for a foe to sneak up on you. The bard also far preferred to pepper her enemies with arrows, stinging them as a swarm of bees.

She heard them before she saw them, that chattering chuckle and menacing growls that foretold the arrival of darkspawn. Genlock and hurlock from the sounds. She straightened, knees bent, arrow nocked and bowstring pulled taut. Clear blue eyes scanned the trees. She heard Bodahn and Sandal behind her and knew they were alert and prepared to let their bolts fly.

A grunt resounded, followed closely by the piercing shriek of the dying. Her eyes narrowed as she pivoted about, toward the direction the death scream came from. There again, and then another, the body of a hurlock flying through the air, landing heavily to its back as Roland rushed in to finish it off with a well placed jab of his sword.

She could then hear the Sten’s shout of triumph as he, too, apparently dispatched with his opponents.

Roland straightened as the Sten marched into the area. Both men continued to search the grounds, and Leliana did not ease her own stance. A rumbling chuckle alerted her to the advance of several of the monsters, and then the group found themselves surrounding and best upon by the darkspawn. With a growl, Hafter, who had remained by Leliana’s side, lunged forward, pushing off the ground with his powerful hind legs, landing upon the nearest genlock, bearing it to the ground. The monster strove to fend the war hound’s teeth off, but failed. Hafter’s teeth sank into its forearm and, with a viscous shake, tore the skin from it. He then lunged forward, driving his teeth into its face, gripping on, his jaws locking as he began to worry the creature like a rag doll.

Arrows and bolts flew at the darkspawn, felling several of them, injuring many more. Leliana was suitably impressed with how quickly the dwarves managed to reload their crossbows, the bard making a note to rethink her opinion on the heavy weapons.

As they fought, another set of arrows had joined in taking down the darkspawn. Leliana had noticed it first, taking note of foes that fell to the missiles that did not come from her bow, and that she knew had not fell to the crossbows behind her.

Roland noticed next, ever attentive and aware in battle, as any knight should be. Facing off with his opponent, he smashed his shield into its face, causing it to stagger backwards, yet the hurlock - standing as tall as the former knight - retained its footing. An ugly snarl crossed its death skull face, and it jabbed its sword at the man, seeking purchase behind the shield Roland raised in his defense. Roland easily parried the blade, turning it aside as he then quickly reversed his own blade, bringing it sweeping across the unprotected neck of the large darkspawn. Black blood gushed from the wound, but the thing managed to raise its sword, trying to bring down the human. A green and white fletched arrow suddenly sprouted from one eye socket and the beast finally slumped to the ground, dead.

Leliana noticed that another woman - human - had stepped into the clearing, a short bow held in hand, as she quickly fired off more of the green and white fletched arrows. A sense of apprehension fell over the bard, and she frowned. She would certainly not turn aside aid, but the knowledge that the woman had been trailing them since they had left the mountains caused the former Orlesian spy a sense of ill ease. Turning her attention back to the battle, she put all thoughts of the newcomer from her mind, for now.

The two women worked in synch with one another, a steady stream of arrows flying unceasingly into the midst of the darkspawn that attacked them. The dwarves held their own valiantly, with only the occasional cry of “Enchantment!” from the younger. Leliana suppressed a giggle that threatened to escape. How very inappropriate!

Roland was tiring, the bard could see. His shield continued to bash and knock the fiends down as his sword unerringly sliced the life from his opponents. However, his shoulders started to slouch somewhat, and she noticed that he had stumbled once. The strength of his blows did not suffer or ease, but the bard knew that they would need to finish the fiends quickly. Her own shoulders aching, the archer sent her arrows slicing into the body of one menacing hurlock that moved too close to the former knight for her comfort.

The Sten snarled, his greatsword cleaving the darkspawn in two by twos and threes. The giant’s blows never slowed, and he was quickly surrounded by the mangled corpses of the darkspawn too foolish to stay clear.

Before exhaustion could take its toll, the darkspawn assault finally ceased. Sighing wearily, the bard lowered her arms, her blue eyes scanning the area as her compatriots did likewise. Her vision settled upon the young woman who had entered the fray.

Dark chocolate brown hair curled around her face, having come loose from the heavy braid down her back. Dark brown eyes, almost black, were half lidded as she wearily shouldered her own weapon. She was almost as tall as Leliana, who was considered tall for a woman, but with round curves where the bard was willowy. She was dressed in simple but well made armor, a heavy fur lined cloak slung across her shoulders, her archery shoulder and arm bare. It was when the woman - who appeared a year or two younger than Leliana - turned, that she knew, if not whom she was, what she was.

The haughty gleam in her eyes and the proud tilt of her chin marked the young woman clearly as a noble of high birth. Those dark eyes skimmed quickly and without interest over Leliana and the dwarves, briefly resting upon the Sten’s huge form, before settling upon the young man who was now turning away from the carnage he had created to check on his companions.

Leliana watched as Roland’s green eyes, hooded with exhaustion, settled upon the figure of the pretty noblewoman. Those same green eyes widened slightly and he moved forward quickly. Aware he knew the woman, the bard watched closely to the woman’s reaction. Where Roland’s relief at seeing her was palpable, the noblewoman’s reaction was more subdued, almost a look of bored entitlement, and nothing else. No relief at seeing the young man alive and well, no joy at seeing another she knew. Leliana suppressed a snort; such was the way of the nobility, the Orlesian thought bitterly, having been well rid of it all during her time in Fereldan.

Of course, Leliana reminded herself as she continued her scrutiny of the younger woman. This noble had been following them for at least a couple of weeks. Why had she not revealed herself sooner?

Roland stopped just in front of the young woman, and offered a respectful bow.

“Ser Gilmore,” the young woman’s voice was low and throaty, practiced as any noblewoman who knew the power of not only her beauty but her birth.

Taking a deep breath, Roland straightened, staring the young woman directly in the eyes. “It is a pleasure to see you alive and well, Lady Cousland.”

[SheilaD67]

First, for those following Beyond the Sylvan Paths, I promise to update soon. I‘ve hit a minor writer‘s block - I know where I want it to go, I‘m just having trouble finding the words. I’ve been so full of this story lately that I have only been poking at Paths.

I am so happy with the response the last chapter - or rather, Lady Cousland’s appearance has elicited. This chapter is mainly fluff, and also a setting a direction or two for other aspects of the story. Hope it meets with your approval…

As always, I so very much appreciate the alerts, favorites and reviews!: Nithu, Arsinoe de Blassenville, tgail73, CCBug, Biff McLaughlin

Ahm…what did I forget? Oh yeah, I do not own this. Actually, other than my house and car, I don’t own anything of any significance, especially this awesome universe.

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 34

　
Sitting cross legged on the floor, the heavy woolen blanket wrinkled beneath her, Adela concentrated upon the figure she had been working on for weeks. Rubbing the pad of her thumb along the squared edges, she gently blew the ivory dust away, clearing out the grooves along the bulky form. Thea, Josef’s elder sister by two years, sat beside her, her reddish blond head bent over the wood she had been working on, creating her own masterpiece, one for her mother. Adela glanced over at her ‘student’ a wide smile upon her lips. The girl had the talent and desire to create truly marvelous works. If she had remained as the ‘property’ of the cult, the poor thing would never have realized her potential as anything other than a brood mare. Adelaine had been pleased beyond words when Adela had offered to tutor the girl.

The front door whooshed open, and Adela’s blond head looked up, tucking her own work down to her lap, watching as the figure passed by her doorway. It was Niall, apparently returned from checking up on Brother Genetivi, who had insisted upon remaining with a small family in the house just down the hill a bit. He insisted that he did not wish to be a burden, considering Adela’s own need for recuperation. Zevran and Niall were both of a mind that the lovely mother of the brood of five had something more to do with it. As Niall waved a hello and then continued on his way passed her door, she breathed a sigh of relief and resumed her work. It wouldn’t do for the one to whom her current work was for to walk in before it was finished.

A smile crossed her lovely features as she stretched her legs out, relishing in the feel of tendons lengthening and the aches releasing. They were approaching the dead of winter, and Adela’s strength had returned after careful, tedious and painful work. However, her companions still did not allow her to help out around the village, and kept her confined to the Chantry. She knew that Alistair, especially after telling him of her childhood, felt guilty about so restricting her movements. However, as had been told to her throughout her younger years and was now being repeated by those who cared for her well being, it was for her own good. Never one given to tantrums, the young woman still felt petulant and at times displayed a remarkable ability toward ill humor. Even Alistair would avoid her on her more grumpy days.

Today, however, found her in as good a humor as she had ever been. With Thea’s visit and a resumption of her art, the elf found a renewed sense of worth as she worked the ivory. Perhaps in another day or two it would be ready for presentation.

DA:O

Roland kept casting glances back at Elissa, watching as she moved, back straight and haughty, beside Leliana. He was slightly surprised that Elissa managed to remain immune to the bard’s usually winning charm. However, the noblewoman seemed determined to ignore everyone in the group, save when she attempted giving orders to those very same people. He was more amazed that no tantrums had resulted in those companions refusing to give in to the woman’s demands. At one point, Roland had to pull the noblewoman aside and explain that these folks were not her vassals nor servants, but warriors on an important quest to stop the Blight. Meeting her dark glare with his level stare, he waited until she backed down. With a huff, she resumed her position in line, shooting glares at the former knight’s straight back.

Bodahn had accepted the woman’s manner with easy grace, grinning away as he supplied her with a tent and bedroll from his stock. On the sly, he had told Roland that he found human nobles to be far less demanding and easier to please then dwarven nobles, especially if you met their ridiculous demands with a smile and a nod. Clapping the dwarf on the back, the former knight thanked the merchant for seeing to the lady’s comfort. To which the merchant chuckled. “Coin is coin, my friend. The gold spends regardless of whose hand it is taken.”

The former knight shook his red head, turning his attention back to the road. They had one, perhaps two more days left in their journey to Redcliffe, barring any further interruptions or attacks along the way. He sincerely hoped that Elissa would remain civil during that time. He had no concern for Leliana. The Orlesian was gracious and patient almost to a fault. And the Sten would simply ignore the noblewoman with his usual stoicism. He did notice that Hafter had taken a sound dislike to the woman, but the hound remained at Roland’s side (much to the man‘s surprise), and would not attack someone who was part of their group.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head. The jocularity that had formed among the group - even on the Sten’s part - had evaporated upon Elissa’s inclusion to the group. Once they arrived at Redcliffe, the sheer size of the castle and the village nearby should be enough to put distance between Elissa and the others.

Or, so he hoped.

DA:O

She sat across from his desk, merely watching as he sat, his long fingers steepled at his forehead, his eyes half closed in thought. He knew she was simply waiting, as she always did, with that patience she learned during her service to king and country. Learned under his tutelage. Anger barely under control, the mage lifted his head to stare into those deep, brown eyes of the woman he loved.

A straight brow twitched and raised in question. Arawn frowned, rising to his feet. She knew what was angering him. She just wasn’t certain what he was going to do about it.

Over the past month, Loghain had managed to break free of the Fade prison he had so carefully constructed around the Teyrn. Whenever he was placed in sleep, his soul would be drawn to the prison, and kept there until such time as the body of the man was needed. Then, using a vial of Loghain’s blood, Arawn was able to control the body, voice and movements of the man, all while the strength of the man’s personality and soul remained in the background, giving what it could to the control the blood mage exerted over him, but unable to fight to break free of that hold.

Somehow, he had managed to break free of the sleep induced prison three times over the course of two weeks.

The mage finally allowed the building snarl to escape, and it was then Cauthrien rose to her feet, moving with quick, efficient grace to stand beside him, a strong hand settled upon his forearm. He looked over into her plain features, intelligent eyes and steady posture. Then there was a sigh, and he leaned over and kissed her lightly upon one cheek.

“Is there nothing more that you can do to control him?” she asked. Arawn smiled over at her, knowing she knew that if he had an answer he would not necessarily tell her. Her eyes remained upon his face, obviously trying to see if any answer lay therein. With a final sigh, she leaned over and kissed him, then took her leave.

The blood mage watched his lover leave, quietly closing the door behind her, and then settled back at the desk. The option before him was…undesirable. However, with Howe firmly ensconced at the Arl’s manor, and his penchant for…unsavory games, he was certain the man could provide him with the fodder he would need for the ritual he needed to perform. Rising, he made his decision, and set off to meet with his ally.

He was certain the Teyrn would be able to provide him with many elves that would be suitable….

DA:O

The clang of metal upon metal rang throughout the chapel of the Chantry, echoing off the stone walls. The pews had been removed as well as the altar, converting part of the largest room in the building into a sparring chamber. Alistair leaned back against the doorframe, watching as the two elves worked through their sparring routine. Zevran was taking it very easy on Adela, who had only been on her feet for the past week without assistance. She had insisted upon the sparring sessions, to which the elven assassin agreed only if she would let him know when she became too tired to continue on. Alistair chuckled as he recalled her raising that brow of hers, replying, “And I supposed our enemies will allow me to catch my breath should I become overtired?” Zevran merely met that stare with one of his own, but insisted upon the compromise. The elven warden had merely sighed, and then agreed.

Now, she moved with almost the careful grace they were all accustomed to seeing her move with, her daggers flying and spinning, meeting each and every one of the Zevran’s practiced blows. Her feet were still a bit wobbly, and Alistair noticed that Zev did not take advantage and push his benefit, but merely remained in place, concentrating of her hand-eye coordination before mixing footwork into the dance.

The ex-templar had to admit it - allowing the ex-Crow into their ragtag team had been one of the best decisions the elven warden had made. And that was saying a lot - Adela seldom made terrible decisions.

He grinned - well, except whenever she was trying to save time, that is.

He heard Zevran curse slightly and turned his attention back to the pair. Apparently, Adela had managed to out step the other elf, and was now grinning down upon his prone figure, her daggers each at his throat as he lay upon his back. Zevran chuckled, raising his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. Laughing, she reached down to assist him to his feet. Zevran playfully slapped her hands away, pushing himself up on his own power. Alistair saw the slight frown upon Adela’s lips, but she said nothing as the other elf straightened before her.

Adela’s recovery had been amazing in its quickness. She was by no means back up to the strength she had been, but she was, he hazarded a guess, where she had been at the time she found herself standing under the ancient archways of Ostagar. With at least two more months of winter, during which time they would not be able to travel, Alistair was confident his fellow warden would be back up to the fighting form she had been prior to their battle with the high dragon. He grinned as he looked over at the scales Zevran had insisted upon harvesting from the dragon’s body. They would either fetch a decent price at an armory or make a splendid suit of armor. His smile widened as his gaze wandered to his sleeping chambers, thinking of the pack he had stuffed with the softer, more malleable drake scales. He knew of a certain armory in Denerim that he meant to call upon once they were able to make it back to the capital.

Later that night found Alistair sitting in his chair in Adela’s room, waiting for her return. Niall and Morrigan had been called to one of the homes wherein one of the few pregnant women was expecting to give birth soon, Zevran accompanying them. Adela had been on dinner duty that evening, and was finishing up cleaning. Alistair had offered to help, but she had told him, without doubt, that she did not need his assistance and that since he got to go out and about during the day, he could suffer through a few moments without her while she did the dishes. Grinning, he left the room and settled down to watch the fire.

While he sat, he thought. He had been confused of late with her. Before, their friendship had been so easy - they could hug or hold each other, and he never noticed any hesitance on her part. It had been like that practically since they met those months ago at Ostagar. These past few days, however, she would pull away more often, unable to meet his eyes. She had even made certain that his room had been set up, and he ended up spending less time in her company as she insisted that he spend his nights in his room. The young man had assumed that she had been falling in love with Roland as the other knight had been making clear overtures of courting the pretty elf. She had said several times that she missed the knight’s company, and had even voiced her displeasure at Alistair’s recruiting the young man into the Wardens. And, while Alistair had thought he had come to terms early on in their relationship that the elven lass would only ever be his friend, he knew that he had been lying to himself. He loved her. And, despite his taking a more forward role in putting his feelings out to her, he still felt as though he would be the one losing.

The door, that had been slightly ajar, was pushed open, and Adela walked quietly into the room. She cast her fellow Warden a shy smile and hurried over to where her crafting supplies lay. He watched as she dragged a wrapped bundle from her pack, and silently hoped she was not going to ask him to leave her room so soon. Every night for the past week she had been insistent upon his leaving, and he found he was missing her almost as much as he did while she was unconscious.

This night, however, was obviously different. She turned her smile - that radiant smile that Alistair knew was for him and him alone - upon him and he found himself grinning widely back.

“This is for you,” she said, thrusting the package into his hands. Astonished, he looked at the bundle of cloth wrapped around an object that felt harder than wood, but not as strong as stone. He raised a questioning eyebrow, but she merely met the gesture with a wave of her hand. As he began to unroll it, Adela sank to the floor by his feet, watching eagerly as he unwrapped the object.

As the white of the ivory was revealed, and the object wrapped in the cloth came further into view, Alistair’s hands paused, his eyes staring with disbelief at the item that Adela had crafted for him. He raised his eyes, seeking out the elf’s blues, and he saw her grin at the astonished expression that most assuredly was set upon his features. Carefully, he pulled out the figure, his fingers running over the etched carving as he pulled it free of its bundle.

“Adela…” he whispered as he gazed at the figure that she had carved for him. The white and gray of the ivory blended and swirled over the square form, and she had carved out individual ‘stones’ along the length. Strong arms hung at its sides - one straight down the side, the other held out slightly, it’s four fingered palm held up and flat. She had even managed to set within two eye sockets black onyx, and the golem’s mouth was set in a long, grim line. Turning the figure over, he examined every inch, grinning away as moisture formed in his eyes. When he looked back to Adela, he saw that her eyes as well had gathered an amount of moisture. When she noticed he was looking at her, her eyes shifted shyly away for a moment.

“I was going by memory,” the elf said as she rose to her knees, leaning against Alistair’s legs as she ran a long fingered hand along the golem’s head. “I had seen a drawing of one in a book Maric had shown me as a child.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Apparently, there had been a mage with them who had a golem.” Her shoulders gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know if it’s anything like the one you had as a child, but…” Her sentence ended with a squeak as Alistair pulled her onto his lap and into his arms, hugging her tightly to him. Laughing, she hugged him back for a moment.

“I take it you like it?” she asked after a few moments, still tightly wrapped in the human’s arms. She felt his head nod against hers, and she giggled slightly, closing her eyes.

“Thank you,” Alistair whispered into her hair, just above one delicate ear. “You have no idea how much this means…” his voice broke slightly here, and he flushed with embarrassment. “Really,” he pulled her back at arm’s length, staring into her eyes. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Still smiling, Adela brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, not quite meeting his open and frank gaze. “I’m glad you like it, Alistair.”

“’Like’ isn’t a strong enough word, Del,” Alistair smirked as she rolled her eyes at the nickname he had come up with. She hated it, and he knew it. It was difficult enough for the elf to call Zevran ‘Zev’, a shortening of his name the male elf insisted upon her using. Having her own name shortened irked her.

He could, however, see the tiny lift at the corners of her mouth, so he knew she wasn’t upset with him. His attention went back to cataloging the details of the golem figure the elf had crafted for him. Adela rose to her feet and wandered to the fireplace, tossing a log on top of the existing pile. Alistair snuck a look at her, noting that she had her body turned from him, her head bowed somewhat. The hands holding the figure went to his lap and he took the opportunity to study the elven woman standing before the fire.

She was wearing her hair down and loose, it falling to her waist in a golden cascade, curling slightly around her shoulders and arms. The firelight danced along its length, giving it a reddish tinge and silhouetting her face and slender form beautifully. He suppressed a sigh. Her body was rigid, and she seemed to be staring off into the flames as though in a dream. Unable to take the changes in Adela’s demeanor - which could drastically change from open friendship to this more closed wall - any longer, he rose from his chair, and stepped over to the elven woman.

As he neared, he noticed that she had shifted her body slightly so that he could not look into her face. Squelching the hurt that rose in his chest, the young man stepped to her side, watching her bowed head.

Alistair’s face bent down to Adela’s, watching as an array of emotions - surprise, concern, confusion - crossed her beautifully expressive face.

“Tell me what is wrong,” he encouraged, crouching down to better see her eyes, eyes she kept hiding from him. She merely shook her head, unable to respond, turning her body slightly away from him, swallowing hard but not speaking.

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Is it about Roland?” He noticed Adela went still at that, and he just plunged ahead. “Look, if…I know that he loves you,” her head tilted toward him slightly. “And, although I can’t say I’m happy about….well, you being with anyone else,” he shook his head, turning away. “Adela, you know how I feel about you. I’ve never hidden the fact that I…well, I care - no, I love you,” he turned back and was surprised that she was watching him, her blue eyes dark, full lips slightly parted. “But, if Roland makes you happy…” he faltered, finding it difficult to get the words passed his lips, and cursed himself as tears fell to his cheeks. Oh, great powerful warrior I am! He scolded himself.

She turned toward him then, taking the step necessary to place herself directly in front of him. Placing her hands on his chest and lifting her pretty face to his, she frowned at the tears, and raised a delicate hand - a hand becoming increasingly calloused from battle - to wipe them away. In a very small, soft voice, she said, “I am very sorry for my…wandering moods. I have been trying to figure out some…surprising thoughts that have recently come up. But, I do not love Roland.”

He could not express the relief that flowed through him at that admission. However, if it was not Roland, then it had to be…

She raised on her toes, bringing her face close to his down turned visage.

“I love you,” and then she kissed him, a simple chaste kiss placed very lightly upon his mouth. It surprised the young man, who stared down at the elf as she moved away. The words finally seemed to register in his mind. She said she loved me. His eyes brightened, and he scooped her into his arms, pulling her up, his mouth coming down to capture hers in an ecstatic kiss. He felt her slender arms wrap around his neck, pressing her body against his as she returned the kiss at first shyly, and then as their lips lingered upon each other, with enthusiasm. They broke free, gasping slightly.

Heart pounding rapidly, the blood rushing in his ears, all Alistair could do was grin goofily at the woman still in his arms. “That…that wasn’t too soon, was it?” he asked the only words that popped into his head.

Adela giggled at him, swatting at his arm. “Silly. I started it.” A pink flush rose, touching her cheeks and the tips of her ears.

“Hmmm…right, forgot that part,” he grinned down at her, his heart bursting for her. “Maker’s breath,” he breathed, lightly kissing her lips again, rejoicing that he could kiss her in such a manner without seeming too brash. “but you are beautiful.”

Her blush deepened, and he could not resist. A gentle finger traced the delicate curves of her ear, an ear he had wanted to touch for so long it was almost torture. Her eyes closed, her lips parted as her breathing increased, her head tilting to his touch. Then a slender hand captured his hand, pulling it down. “Alistair,” she breathed, her eyes opening part way. “Elven ears are very….sensitive.” her eyes were dark with passion, and it took the young man just a moment to understand exactly what she meant by that. His own face flushed considerably as his grin widened.

“Ah, good to know,” he said playfully, kissing her again, staring into her face. “I am a lucky man, Adela.” He pulled her to him in a hug, kissing the top of her head. Her arms released his neck and he felt a moment of dismay at the loss of contact. That dismay turned to pleasure as she tucked her arms around his waist, pulling herself closer to him, snuggling her face into his chest.

“So,” he said, finally breaking the embrace, his voice husky with emotion. “When did you figure out that you went for the tall, blond and goofy types?”

Giggling at his self deprecation, Adela raised her face to his. “I’m really not sure,” she admitted, tipping her head back a bit to watch his eyes. “I liked you from the first time we met. You were sweet.” she poked him in the side when he rolled his eyes at that. “But, I was…confused. I thought I loved another,” her head tilted down somewhat.

“Loghain,” Alistair offered, having known for some time of the girl’s feelings for the older man.

She nodded, raising her head again. “It was a girlish crush I have had for him since I was a child. He saved my life, made me a part of his in small gestures. He treated me as an equal in all things. But,” she shook her head. “truly, what do I have in common with him?”

A small frown formed on her face, and Alistair resisted the urge to kiss it away, as he truly wanted to hear this. “I kept telling myself that I loved him, and that any feelings I had for you was purely friendship. But,” her smile returned, “you are just so insidious! You get under the skin and are so silly at times, yet at other times you are so capable and assured. You don’t mind being playful…I just couldn’t get you out of my head, and then eventually I realized I couldn’t get you out of my heart.”

She smiled softly. “I woke up from the battle with the dragon, there you were, by my side as always. And, it felt so…right. Like that’s where you needed to be, where I needed to be. By each other’s sides. And, not just in battle.” She shrugged. “Papa used to tell me that was how it was for he and Mamae, the feeling of being incomplete without each other. Papa feels it to this day.” She paused then, in thought, as she thought of her parents.

“I am sorry for my erratic behavior,“ there was an apology in her voice and Alistair smiled at it. She raised on her toes again to kiss him lightly on the lips. “I was afraid to say anything or even really allow myself to understand my feelings because I felt like I was being fickle.” A hand waved slightly. “Thinking I was in love with one man, but then realizing I loved another.” She frowned. “I never wanted to be a fickle woman.”

Alistair blinked, and then laughed, pulling her to him. “That’s not being fickle, you silly girl!” he bent and kissed her again, deciding he was definitely enjoying that. “You said it yourself: you had a childhood crush. It’s natural to have such feelings for someone who has been a part of your life.” he smiled gently, running a finger along her jaw line and up her cheek. “I’m just glad you realized that it was a girlhood crush and that it was me that you had feelings for.” His grin widened. “I don’t know what I would have to do if I had to continue competing with Roland.”

“Oh?” she grinned up at him.

“Sure. An old man who betrayed king and country?” He did not notice Adela’s flinch at that. “I can compete with that. But an almost equally handsome and jovial Knight from Highever?” he feigned a shudder, causing Adela to giggle, “I may have had to actually work for that!”

Her smile widened, her eyes were bright as she looked up into Alistair’s happy face. “I love you, Alistair.” she said again, smiling as his face relaxed, his amber eyes darkening slightly.

“And I,” he pulled her closer, bringing his mouth to her, “love you,” he whispered against her lips before capturing them in another lingering kiss.

[SheilaD67]

Three reviews popped up within minutes of my placing the last chapter, and then just kept on coming! This story is now at 150 reviews and counting! Too cool, all, too cool! Thanks as always for those awesome reviews to Nithu, CCBug, tgail73, mutive, lilachsh, Arsinoe de Blassenville, zevgirl, Eriana10. I love watching how everyone’s minds start to work, the wheels and cogs just churning. I do admit that the last chapter was a bit rushed. I probably could have written another ‘filler’ chapter, but nothing came to mind and I didn‘t want to just write something for the sake of writing it. I hope everyone can forgive me for that.

I hope to continue to keep you all guessing…

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 35

They had reached a quiet, snow laden Redcliffe Village days ago, and during that time Wynne and Artemis had prepared the Ashes and used them to awaken the Arl. Roland had to admit it - he had initially doubted that they would work. After all, what were they to do with them? Just sprinkle them over the Arl’s prone form? Sing the Chant of Light over them before tossing them in the air? Make a tea out of them? The former knight felt somewhat blasphemous for those thoughts, but he really had been doubtful and curious.

The mages, however, seemed to have some idea and so the two healers had taken the pouch, prepared the ashes somehow (Wynne still would not tell him what they had done), and then they did, indeed, sprinkle them over the arl’s body. The Warden recruit had watched the procedure - simple as that.

Bann Teagan still acted as host as his brother slept in a natural, healing sleep. Lady Cousland had been given a suite of rooms in the West Wing, where the noble guests to Redcliffe were normally ensconced. The Bann had then placed Roland and his party in rooms near the mages in the family wing. Roland was most grateful for the respect the Bann was obviously showing him and his companions. If he had to guess from the look the gracious Bann gave them, he seemed aware that they needed to separate from Elissa as far as possible.

Therefore, days later, with the snow falling and the lakefront frozen, Roland found himself wandering the grounds. To be honest, he was also trying hard to avoid Artemis. The elven man had a habit of showing up and then making the young knight terribly uncomfortable with his open flirting. He groaned, placing his head in his hands, wondering how Adela and the others were making due. The wind blew the locks of hair that had come loose from the braid he kept his long hair tied back in. He hoped Adela was well.

He spotted the Sten sitting, tailor fashion, upon the ground, having cleared the snow away so that he could settle in for meditation. Roland chuckled, scuffing at the snow as he made his way around the huge warrior. He knew that the Qunari would not appreciate being interrupted, and so he made his way passed the man and into the castle.

Wynne was waiting for the young man by the doors, watching as he had wandered around, almost aimlessly. She offered him a soft smile and gently took the arm the gallant knight had offered.

“How is the Arlessa?” the young man asked as he let the elderly mage steer him to the Arl‘s study, where she had advised him the Arl was awaiting him.

“She is doing quite well, Roland,” the mage’s warm, soft voice wafted around him like a blanket. Although they had not known the mage for long before departing for the Ashes, Roland had found he had missed her careful wisdom and calm, soothing presence. “The scars have faded quite nicely, and she is taking the damage done to her features with great courage.” Here she paused, looking up into his face. “I must admit to being somewhat surprised. I would have thought a woman such as herself - young, beautiful, noble - would be hiding herself away, bemoaning the ill fate fallen upon her. And yet,” she tugged him back along, “she has resumed her duties with grace and patience, with only a jeweled eye patch to obscure some of the damage done.”

Roland was genuinely surprised by this turn of events. The Arlessa Isolde that he and the others had met had been far more…Orlesian: vain, uncaring of the suffering her own actions had wrought. He grinned slightly at that, thinking of the other Orlesian woman he was acquainted with.

Once they arrived at the study, the elderly mage took her leave, explaining that the conversation with the Arl was decided to be one with Roland, Bann Teagan, and Lady Cousland.

The Arl was in deep conversation with his brother, Bann Teagan. Ser Perth stood to the back of both men, watching as Roland stepped into the chambers. The Knight of Redcliffe gave his Highever counterpart a brief, respectful nod before resuming his hawk-like observation of the room. He was surprised to see Leliana present, standing quietly, observing everyone in the room.

Roland knew the Arl from the visits the Couslands had made to Redcliffe over the years, long after Alistair had been sent off to the Chantry, but had never interacted with the Arl and therefore had not formed any opinion of the man himself. He did know, however, that Teyrn Bryce and Teyrna Eleanor had not been overly fond of the Arl, nor his Orlesian born wife, and that there was another point of contention that, while never spoken of aloud, was evident whenever they made their visits.

After bowing to the nobles in the room, the Warden recruit took his place next to Leliana, waiting for the Arl to address him. The Arl, whom Roland knew to be only in his early fifties, had aged considerably during his convalescence. His beard, once deep reddish brown was now heavily streaked with gray, as was the full head of hair upon his head. Heavy lines now bisected his face, giving him more the appearance of age on par with a grandfather rather than a father of a young boy. Roland winced slightly at that comparison.

“Ser Gilmore,” the Arl began, tilting his head slightly to the young man. Roland shook himself from his observation and acknowledged the Arl’s address.

“Your Grace,” the young warden acknowledged, “Please, I have given up any titles. I am simply Roland or Warden Roland.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” the older man, “I had heard you will be joining the illustrious ranks of the Wardens. Congratulations, Ser. The Grey Wardens are as fine an institution as there is.”

“My thanks, Your Grace,” he bowed, straightening.

“You are most welcome,” Arl Eamon politely said to Roland with a slight bow of his head. “My healers tell me that had you not arrived when you did, they were uncertain as to how much longer I may have lived.”

With a deep bow, Roland replied, “It was our pleasure to be able to assist in any way we can, Your Grace.” He straightened. “I know that Commander Adela was most concerned for your welfare.”

Roland did not miss the expression that flickered briefly across the man’s face. One laced with recognition, irritation and curiosity. However, the Arl made no mention of it, but merely smiled at the younger man.

“Lady Cousland,” the Arl turned toward the young noblewoman, practiced sympathy clearly upon his face. “You have my most sincere sympathies for what happened to your family.”

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Elissa responded, her face as impassive as her voice. “I would ask, as the Teyrna of Highever, that you avail yourself, your resources and your arms to the undertaking of reclaiming my family home.” That chin raised impudently, her eyes boring into Eamon’s grays.

A slight frown formed on the older man’s face, and Leliana and Roland exchanged uneasy glances. “I fear that, at this time, we have a Blight to contend with,” the elderly politician explained, his hands held out at his sides in a placating gesture. “All of our forces must be spent toward defeating this greater evil.”

Brown eyes narrowed. “I see.” came out clipped, anger clearly behind the words. “Were you a vassal of mine, I could simply order you to do so or merely confiscate your holdings. However, as you are not,” she bowed her head slightly in deference for the most powerful Arl in all of Fereldan. “I must humbly accept your decision. However, I do ask that, once the Blight has been defeated, that you would perhaps see to lending me those arms as you can.”

A gray brow rose at the girl’s impudence, but the Arl nodded, bowing low to the young noble. “Whatever is in my power, I shall do as I can,” he responded as he straightened.

With a slight nod of her head, the young noble, without a word or look toward Roland and the others, swept out of the hall.

As he watched her leave, a thoughtful expression came across Eamon’s face. He then turned back to the others.

“Quite spirited, isn’t she?” he commented.

Roland nodded, unsure how to respond. As a Warden, he was no longer in the service of the Couslands. Nor did he truly have to bend to protocol concerning nobles. However, his entire life had been spent in enforcing those same protocols into his very being, and he found it difficult even now to openly speak against Elissa to someone who was outside of the Warden circle he was now a part of.

“Why did you leave Alistair behind, may I ask?” the Arl questioned the young knight, his gray eyes narrowed slightly.

Roland frowned. “It was Warden Alistair’s very orders that left him behind with the Commander,” he responded, confused by the Arl’s interest.

During their time together, Roland had learned that Alistair was a bastard son of Maric’s, and one who had been placed in Arl Eamon’s care. He knew, from his conversations with the Warden that his childhood in Redcliffe had been anything but memorable or favorable for a growing lad.

Therefore, knowing of Alistair’s past, Roland found it odd that the Arl was now concerned with the other man’s well being.

“He is, after all, next in line for the throne,” Eamon remarked, watching the former knight intently, as though trying to get his worth.

Ah, there it was. Roland frowned. He knew without a doubt that his friend did not intend to claim the throne. Firstly, as a Grey Warden, he forfeited any titles by deed or noble birth. Secondly, his feeling was that Anora was a fine, capable, lawful queen and he would never do anything that remotely seemed treasonous. Thirdly, and most importantly, he had no desire to be king. For Roland, that was more than enough reason to dissuade the Arl in his obvious mind set.

However, the Warden recruit knew it was not his place to do so. Therefore, he remained quiet, allowing the Arl to continue. Leliana, standing next to the warden, stood still, her quick mind obviously taking in every word, her perceptiveness taking in every action.

DA:O

Arawn stood in the center of the opulent chambers, taking in the large fireplace, dining area, gold gilted walls and huge, canopied bed. In just a few short months, Rendon had transformed the Denerim Manor from a blood soaked slaughter house, decimated of guard and lords alike, back to its former glory. He smirked as his eyes settled upon the door that stood along the side of the room where the bed stood. The blood mage knew quite well to where that door led.

As familiar with blood and violence as the maleficar was, there were some habits that possessed the Howe noble that sometimes bothered the mage.

However, those very same habits were ones with which made the nobleman a very efficient ally.

As his gaze continued to survey the room, Teyrn Howe entered the chamber, carrying a tray holding a carafe of wine and two goblets. He poured one, handing it over to the mage. As he bent to pour his own, the Teyrn said in his dry, nasally voice. “Well? What do you think?”

Taking a careful sip, the mage nodded his appreciation. “The wine is quite good. And,” he smiled at his friend, whose eyes had narrowed slightly. “I am impressed by how quickly you managed to repair the damage done by those elves mere months before.”

Chuckling, Howe took a sip of his wine, stepping to stand next to the bastard son of Maric. “Indeed. Blood ran from end to end, and there was no end to the bodies.” He ‘tsked’ in mock sympathy. “Poor young Vaughan. He truly underestimated the tenacity of certain breeds of rodents.”

Arawn merely nodded, taking another sip of his wine. He knew well Howe’s distaste for elves; it was reflected in most of nobles in many countries. Fereldan, amazingly, seemed to hold onto its more Orlesian bigotry for the elves, especially considering the history of their fighting side by side their human counterparts. The mage, however, had always had an affinity for the graceful race, and had seen on many occasions were the smaller folk were the match for any human, especially in the magical arts. He wisely kept quiet, however. After all, he came to his friend this day in hopes of being given some elven fodder for the ritual he planned.

Instead, he pointed out the more feminine touches to the room: a vase of silk flowers, brighter colors for the bed‘s coverlet. “I see you still hold out hope we shall locate the young Cousland girl?”

An emotion flickered through Howe’s dark eyes - a possessive emotion the mage knew very well. “I hope for word on her location with each passing day, my friend,” Howe admitted, putting his goblet down on the nearby stand. His eyes strayed to the door that led to the dungeons below. “Once I have her here…” his voice trailed off, but Arawn found a slight shiver at the emotion betrayed in Howe’s voice.

He placed a large hand upon the shoulder of his wiry compatriot. “Have no fears, my friend,” he assured him as he placed his goblet down, gesturing to the door. “I have my men out, and any word they receive on the Cousland girl’s location is to be brought to my ears immediately. As soon as we have her location, I will personally send out my agents to fetch her up.”

Relief caused the smaller, older man to relax somewhat. “My thanks, Arawn. You are, indeed, a better friend than your father had been.”

A wry smile turned the corners of his lips up at that. “Glad I am to hear that, Rendon,” he said sincerely. “My father was one who never truly knew the value of those who helped him secure his throne. I promise you I shall not make the same mistakes he had.” He clapped his hand once to Rendon’s shoulder. “Now, I do have a favor to ask of you, my friend. One I am certain you can assist me in.”

“How so?” Howe drawled out, curiosity in his eyes.

“I am in the need of elves.” The blood mage began. Interest shone in the other man’s face, and the mage directed Howe toward the dungeon. Taking the hint, the noble unlocked the door, leading the mage down.

“May I ask whatever for?” he asked as he unlocked the second set of doors, and then led the mage passed empty cells. The pair paused briefly at one cell, currently occupied by a man of mid years. His long dark hair hung in his face, and he stood proudly, despite being clad only in his small clothes. Arawn’s eyes raked over the man’s tightly muscled form before dismissing him and urging Howe further into the dungeons, completely ignoring the prisoner’s glare.

“Of course you may ask,” the mage resumed with a chuckle, smirking at Howe’s glare. “I have a ritual that needs to be performed. One to firm up the foundations of Loghain’s Fade prison. However, to do so, I need blood and another soul - a snack, as it were - to offer up to the denizens of that section of the Fade.”

“Ah, indeed,’ the nobleman nodded, understanding the man’s request. “Come with me, I have several elves herein of whom I have grown…bored, but one that may do well to begin with. With the current…unrest in the Alienage, I am certain I can procure however many more you need.”

Arawn frowned slightly. “I thought the Tevinters had set up their operations therein?”

Howe shook his head, “They have started the foundation work, however, nothing has been set just yet. What is a half dozen or so missing elves compared to what are left?”

Howe nodded briefly to a guard standing before a door, and watched as the man unlocked the door to allow the two men entry. He led Arawn through a series of interconnecting rooms, the front chambers obviously the guard rooms, and the others filled with cells. Many of the cells were empty, but a few contained prisoners. There were a few humans, one a young man who glared at Howe but remained silent upon seeing Arawn by his side. Another cell contained one older man who knelt, naked, in his own filth, prayers to the Maker spilling from his lips. The last cell contained a young, elven male, so filthy that it was difficult to ascertain the color of his hair. It was in front of this cell the pair stopped.

“This one,” Howe gestured toward the bedraggled elf, who glared defiantly at the humans. “was one that had taken part in the slaughter here months ago.” An evil grin crossed Howe’s lined face. “He has a strong spirit, and a sound body. He has endured the tortures with amazing resilience, but I would gladly give him up for your needs.”

Arawn looked the young elf over, nodding his head. He smirked at the fear that crossed the younger man’s face. “Have him cleaned up and then deliver him to the palace as soon as you are able, Rendon,” the mage said as he turned his back to the prisoner and sauntered passed the other cells. “I must begin the ritual soon.”

Taking one last look at the elf, Rendon grinned, then turned to follow his co-conspirator.

The young elf could only watch, uncertain of his fate, yet knowing, somehow, that his time upon Thedas may be coming to an end.

DA:O

After Adela’s declaration of love for Alistair, the pair of them had spent the rest of that evening cuddling and kissing, enjoying the feel of each other’s heartbeats and lips. The topic of courtship had come up, with Alistair playfully asking if the young woman would prefer a long, drawn out courtship. “At least to the end of the Blight.”

The look of confusion that crossed her face had caused a moment of trepidation for the young man.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, wondering at her reaction.

She lifted her head, her bluest of eyes fixing upon his face. “I am…unsure as to how we proceed from this point. It is all very new to me…,” a forlorn sigh. “I just do not know what to do here,” she looked up into his face. “I know you wish to court me, and the idea of it appeals to me greatly,” she smiled as his own expression eased at those words. “It’s just, I have no idea what that entails exactly. We elves….all of our marriages are arranged. There are no courtships, no declarations of love. Most betrotheds don’t even meet until just hours prior to the marriage ceremony, I have even heard of those who never see their intended until the ceremony itself.”

The warden frowned at this. “That’s rather…cold.” He tilted his head slightly at the elf. He was aware that many noble marriages were arranged, but that at least there were courtship rituals that had to be observed for each couple. To never even glimpse the one you were expected to live the rest of your life with until the day of the wedding…the idea just did not set well with the young man.

“I thought your parents married for love?”

Adela smiled. “They did. However, Papa had been married previously, and had produced offspring. He had become an adult in the eyes of the Alienage. Therefore, he could choose his mate.”

“How will your people view our relationship?” Alistair asked, frowning. If Adela was not married, was she still considered a child in the eyes of her people?

A frown formed on the girl’s face. “Actually, they may view our relationship as treasonous to the elven people.” She brushed her hand over the growing frown that was forming on Alistair’s face. “Stop that. As a Grey Warden, I leave my past behind. While my people may still view me as a child, and our relationship as going against everything that is elven, it does not matter.” She moved closer, brushing her lips against his. “I have found someone I love, and I do not intend to give up any more than necessary out of duty.”

“I don’t want to be the cause of trouble between you and your family, Adela,” Alistair said, speaking around the growing tightness in his throat.

“You won’t,” she replied immediately. “We are both Grey Wardens; our duty is to protect the land against the darkspawn and Blights. If we can find happiness amidst the darkness…” She raised a brow, quoting back words Alistair had said to her months ago.

Laughing, the young man hugged her tightly, feeling the apprehension that had been growing in his chest subside.

“But I still do not know how to proceed with a courtship,” Adela steered them back to the original topic, her eyes hopeful.

“I will tell you this, Adela,” Alistair lifted her chin with one strong hand, “Courtship is to allow a couple of get to know one another, to learn if that person is truly the one for them. We‘ve traveled together for some time now, and faced many hardships, but us as a couple may change the….dynamics of that relationship.” He shrugged here, not certain if he was saying the right thing, but deciding to go with it anyway and get it out there. “I‘ve never done this before, either.” He chuckled, heartened that she grinned up at him. “I say we just take it one step at a time, and see where it leads.”

Her nervous laughter was like a tiny bell to his ears, and she flushed deeper. “That sounds nice, actually.” She turned wrapping her arms around his neck, gazing into his face. “Figuring this out together may actually turn out to be rather…fun.” She gave him a mischievous, playful smile as she nuzzled her nose against his.

Therefore, Alistair had determined to take it slow; he had her love; the rest could be taken at a slower pace. Especially when the young man took into account Adela’s previous experience with a man. He did not want to scare her away or cause her further harm.

His heart, mind and soul understood the need to take things slowly; his body seemed to have a mind all unto its own.

Just being near Adela was sometimes physically impossible as his body - or rather, certain parts of his body - would start to…come to life, completely ignoring the decision the mind, heart and soul had already made. Fortunately, if the woman in question had noticed, she had not made any indication of it, and seemed to enjoy their time together.

And this night his body’s reaction to her was proving distracting and inconvenient. Distracting in that she was sitting very close to him as they all sat in the main chamber, sharing a meal. Inconvenient because they were sharing a meal with their entire group. At Adela’s request.

Apparently, she had something she wanted to discuss with the group as a whole. Alistair doubted it was regarding the latest development in their relationship. Zevran had been dropping innuendos these past few days, winking at the young man, waggling his eyebrows. Niall seemed to be flushing more often in Adela’s company, while Morrigan would simply glare at Alistair. She had, at one point, warned him that if he harmed Adela, she would, indeed, be turning him into that toad Daveth had mentioned those months prior.

So, they were all aware. Of course, how could they miss the even goofier grins Alistair would toss at the elven warden, or miss when Adela would simply walk up to Alistair to deliver a warm kiss to his cheek. They were not exactly hiding the fact that they were pursuing a relationship. He just hoped Zevran would not suggest something …overt to the younger elf. Please, Maker, please help Zevran keep a leash on his tongue…and then he groaned at that unintended implication.

He glanced over at Adela, who remained seated in her chair. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, a clear indication she was nervous or concerned over the reason why she had insisted everyone take the evening meal together. He reached over and gently tapped the lip, and her blue eyes rose to look, in question, into his ambers orbs. Offering a grin, he remarked, “What has that lip ever done to you that you’re going to include it in this evening’s meal?”

Startled, she then rolled her eyes, but released her lip. “Sorry,” she whispered, flushing slightly. “You would think by now I would have outgrown that habit.”

Alistair chuckled at that. “You’ve been doing it since we first met. I’d imagine you’ve been doing it your whole life.” He shrugged. “Some habits are just tough to give up.”

“Hmm…yes, I know,” she admitted, smiling up at him.

“Well, fearless leader,” Zevran all but purred from the other side of the small, round table they had taken their meal at. “Was there something you wished to discuss with us? Or,” a smirk crossed his handsome, tattooed face. “Can we all simply sit back and watch the beautiful pair of you make lovers eyes at one another, hmm?”

Alistair scoffed at that while Adela flushed a bit. “Well, I do have something I wish to discuss,” she admitted after a moment, casting a glance at Alistair. “It’s rather strange, and has taken me some time to try and figure out how to approach the subject.” She turned toward Niall, who was watching with his usual closeness. “I’m still not certain, but can’t let this go any longer without a discussion.”

“You’re always telling me how I’m Fade sensitive, Niall,” the mage nodded. “But I never really believed you before…”

“Ha!” the mage chuckled, nodding at her. “You believe me now?”

“Yes, I do,” she agreed. “While I was unconscious, as a matter of fact, I walked the Fade and was pulled into another person’s…” she stopped here, struggling for the word. “I guess you can say dream, but it really wasn’t.”

Everyone was listening, but it was Niall who responded. “How so, Adela?”

Rubbing a finger along her forehead, she shrugged. “It wasn’t a state of sleep, natural sleep, which the dreamer found himself in. It was induced…a prison set up in the Fade for him.”

“Prison?” Alistair asked, “You mean by blood magic?”

Tilting her head at the former templar initiate, she nodded. “Exactly like that, in fact.” She looked over at Niall, whose eyes were thoughtful. A glance at Morrigan confirmed that she, too, was quite intrigued by this and was watching the elven woman closely.

“Apparently, a blood mage had created a prison within the Fade, and would…cast his spirit into it.” She shrugged. “Is that possible, Niall? I mean, can blood mages really have that much control over a person?”

“You saw what happened at the tower,” the Circle mage quietly reminded her and everyone else. “Uldred managed to do things using blood magic I never thought possible, and no one at the Circle - mage or templar - was prepared for what he managed to accomplish.” He shrugged. “To be honest, the Chantry allows so little research into blood magic that it is impossible to know exactly what is and what is not possible. And, our defenses against it are…limited.”

“All because of your Chantry’s short sightedness,” Morrigan sneered, her yellow eyes narrowing in anger. “Had your Chantry more of a desire to actually counter blood magic rather than simply imprison mages, the Tower would never have fallen as it had.” She lifted her raven head slightly. “Nor would there be a need to imprison every mage out of the ignorance.”

Niall stared at the witch for some moments, but nodded his head. “You’re correct, Morrigan,” the witch seemed slightly surprised by this. “Having knowledge of something does not necessarily mean that it will be used. Sometimes, knowledge of something is enough to dissuade its use.”

“So, is it possible?” Adela pressed, wanting an answer.

Both mages looked at each other and then nodded. “Indeed it is,” Morrigan voiced. “Blood magic, after all, comes from demons. Moreover, ‘tis demons that make their home within the Fade.”

“So a blood mage could make a deal with a demon and create the prison?” Adela asked as she followed along. Again, both mages nodded in affirmation.

The elf leaned back into her chair, a thoughtful look crossing her features. Alistair frowned. “Do you know who this prisoner is, Adela?” he asked after too many minutes of silence followed.

She nodded, turning her eyes to look fully into Alistair’s. The young man could see indecision there, and it startled him a bit. “I do,” she voiced, frowning slightly. She rose, pushing her chair back under the table, pacing around slightly as she collected her thoughts. Alistair rose as well, placing himself in front of her.

“Something tells me you don’t like what you’re going to say to me,” the perceptive young man said.

“No,” she responded. “It’s more that you are not going to like what I’m going to say, and I am uncertain you will even believe me.”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest, aware that the others were watching the pair closely. “Look,” he replied, “I believe that you are Fade sensitive like Niall has been harping on,” he ignored the indignant gasp from said mage. “So, just tell us so that we can figure out a way to help the poor sap.”

Her hands dropping to her sides, she let out a long sigh. Then, seeming to steel herself, she replied. “It’s Loghain.”

　

Modifié par Eva Galana, 16 avril 2011 - 06:52 .

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who has been reading, alerting/favoriting, and reviewing on this story. The last chapter generated some interesting reviews, and, again, I just love watching how some of you may hit on some plot directions, while others…well, let’s just say they I get a giggle sometimes.

My thanks to the following reviewers: Epiphany sola Gratia (first time reviewing this story, thank you for taking the time!), Nithu, Arsinoe de Blassenville, mutive, tgail73, xXBeninekoXx (another first time reviewer who stayed up all night to read chapters 1-35!)

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 36

He stared at the elven woman for a moment, taking in the words that had just come out of her mouth. His amber eyes blinked - once, twice - and then he tilted his head just slightly as though a different angle would help his mind digest her words.

His first reaction was to go off on a tantrum. Had she just said that she had dreams of Loghain? Has she been dreaming of the Teyrn while at the same time saying she loved him?

That quick, knee jerk, got-to-protect-my-heart reaction quickly dissipated, however, as his mind - quicker than most people thought it was - kicked in, pushed aside his emotional reaction, and really listened to what she was saying.

There was a blood mage in control at the palace. Loghain, the Regent, was a blood thrall of that blood mage.

Who knew who else the maleficar controlled? The queen? Perhaps. But, merely having control over Loghain gave the mage control over all of Fereldan - the armies, the nobles, everything.

She stood there, waiting, her blue eyes fixed upon his face although her words had been addressed to everyone in the room. He realized then that it was his reaction that she was most concerned with, his opinion that mattered the most to her. That knowledge eased the last of his tensions away. He may not want to lead, but he did want his opinion to matter.

And he knew that, with Adela, it did.

So he pushed that last vestiges of jealousy that had threatened to explode from his mouth, and frowned, really thinking through the problem.

“You’re telling me that you dream of Loghain and believe he’s not the bad guy?” he asked, his voice calm if not louder than he had wanted it to be. It echoed slightly in the smaller space. He did not notice that the others of their group cast glances at one another. Niall made as though to speak, but Zevran placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his white-blond head for silence.

Adela looked over at the others, and then back to Alistair. Confusion was clearly upon her face, and she seemed at a loss for words.

“Alistair,” the elven woman whispered, taking a step closer. “That is not what I said.”

He frowned, and then rolled his eyes. “Sorry, no, I meant that you had been…what do you call it Niall?” he turned to the mage, who offered up a small smile.

“Fade walking,” the helpful mage injected, pleased that there would not be an argument brewing.

“Right, Fade walking,” the human warden repeated, turning his attention back to the clearly relieved looking elf. Okay, maybe some of his jealousy and tension had slipped by. But, he didn’t mean for it to happen.

“How is it possible that you ended up in his prison?”

The elf shrugged, her eyes seeking out Niall. The mage sat straighter in his seat, obviously pleased that his expertise was called upon by these people he had come to respect so much.

“It is possible that, when someone is trapped in the Fade, that they somehow can ‘call’ to another being or denizen. After all, with the Harrowing, that’s what the templars do - they have a senior mage ‘call’ to a demon and alert them to the fact that an apprentice is in the Fade, and to go on the hunt.”

“Hunt?” Adela’s eyes widened. Beside the male mage, Morrigan scoffed - loudly - at such an idea. “Do you mean that they purposefully put a young mage - no, an apprentice, a child - in such a life threatening situation?”

Both Alistair and Niall nodded, sharing uneasy looks. “Yes,” Niall answered. “It is a test to see if an apprentice can resist the call of a demon. If they fail…”

“The templars kill the apprentice,” Alistair finished in a soft, weak voice, recalling his own experience with an ill fated Harrowing.

Both witch and elf exchanged looks, eyes filled with outrage and indignation. Zevran looked mildly appalled, but remained silent.

“Okay,” Adela said from between clenched teeth. “I always knew that the Chantry had rather barbaric practices with regards to mages, but this really is beyond appalling.” She took a deep breath, relaxing herself. For all the hardships elves had as a race in human held lands, she was beginning to think that at least relative freedom was better than what the mages had to endure.

“So,” she turned back to Niall, getting the conversation back on track. “You are saying that when I’m in the Fade, Loghain can somehow sense someone or something that is Fade sensitive, and a beacon call goes out for help?”

Impressed, the mage nodded his head. “And as we understand you and Loghain already know one another that ‘call’ recognized you and pulled you in.”

Adela began pacing, biting her lower lip in thought. Niall and Morrigan were whispering to one another, Zevran leaning in to listen. Alistair stood, watching Adela, his own face thoughtful.

She paused, her face scrunched up with thought. The young man watched as realization dawned over her features. “What is it?” he asked quietly. The others looked up.

“I’ve just realized that perhaps some of the dreams I thought I had of Loghain were not dreams at all,” she slapped her forehead with a hand, shaking her head, muttering to herself. “What an idiot I am!” she raised her eyes.

“What?”

“Some of the dreams…I think I was actually in Loghain’s prison. Only, we each thought the other some figment. I thought he was a dream Loghain, he thought I was a demon or spirit taunting him.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment, digesting what the elven warden was telling them. She began to pace again, shaking her head. “He tried to tell me.” She paused. “I would ask him how he could have deserted us - the king, the wardens, all those soldiers. He would insist, rather strenuously, that he didn’t recall the battle at all.”

“How is that possible?” Alistair asked, a scowl on his face. “He was there!”

Adela merely shrugged her shoulders. “All I know is that he was very insistent. And, then, in later ‘dreams‘, he tried to tell me that we had all been betrayed.” She threw her hands up in the air. “I had dismissed it as a dream, as what I wanted to hear - that Loghain, the Hero of River Dane, friend of Maric and of my mother, my friend, would never have betrayed us and left us to die.”

“A very power blood mage could have control over a person’s actions, even from a distance,” Morrigan replied, glancing at Niall for confirmation. When he nodded his approval, she continued. “Alter his memories. This mage obviously wanted the king out of the way, and whilst he went about it in a very theatrical manner, it was quite effective.” She shrugged her lithe shoulders, a thoughtful expression upon her lovely face. “’Tis obvious he had not believed the rumors of a Blight, else wise I doubt he would have allowed so much of the armies to be decimated.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “Okay, “he turned back to Adela, still confused. “If you weren’t dreaming but in that prison of his, how come you couldn’t tell the difference?”

A long finger tapped her chin. “Maybe because those visits were merely for a normal sleep period. This last visit was over a two week period.” She turned and looked at the other warden. “I almost became trapped in it myself.”

“That would be normal,” Niall confirmed Adela‘s suspicions with a nod. When Adela and Alistair both turned to him, he continued. “These other ‘dreams’ you had were during a normal slumber period. You were not in the Fade long enough for your perception to adjust, and so thought it was a dream. This last time you were in the Fade was over a lengthy period. Plenty of time for you to adjust and become aware of your surroundings.” The mage shrugged.

“And yet our dear Warden managed to escape her own trap to search the Teyrn out,” Zevran added as he followed along the conversation, pleased to have something to add.

Adela smiled at her fellow elf. “It took a while, however.” She frowned. “I believed what I saw,” she stated. “I knew I was in the Fade, but could not find my way out. It took me…I don’t know how long just to get myself free and then I began searching for someone - anyone - or an exit.”

“And you stumbled upon Loghain.” Alistair said quietly, his eyes watching Adela’s face.

With a nod, she then told her companions all about her entrapment and subsequent freedom from the prison, skipping over the identity of the blood mage. She watched as Alistair’s eyes lit with understanding, that sheepish look pasted firmly upon his face.

“Well,” Zevran put in as he rose to his feet, pushing his chair back and moved to the elven warden. “Regardless of the fact that I think we can safely say that Loghain is a blood thrall, we still have him to contend with, in one fashion or another.”

Alistair nodded, and Adela reluctantly agreed. “True,” the elf replied. “Even if he is not in control of his faculties, he still is Regent, and the blood mage still uses his voice as a means to control the armies, possibly the queen, and Maker knows what or who else.”

“So we continue on as we have been?” Alistair asked, watching Adela closely. He felt a surge of relief when she nodded in affirmation.

“Indeed we do. We can’t let our knowledge - or suspicion - that Loghain is held in thrall alter any of our course at this time. We have a Blight to stop. And that means we need to finish collecting on these treaties, seeing to the Arl’s recuperation, and possibly confronting Loghain.”

“Perhaps there is a way to free the Teyrn from his prison?” Zevran put in with a slight shrug. “Find the mage and kill him. End of all our worries.”

“Save we do not know if the mage acts alone or has coconspirators,” Morrigan reminded the smirking elf with a smirk of her own.

“Ah, ‘tis true, ‘tis true,” the male replied with a bow toward the perceptive witch.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Adela said, her eyes going to Alistair. He returned her look and could see that there was more she needed to say. He raised an eye brow at her and she nodded.

“Now, if everyone will excuse us, I have something else that I need to discuss with my fellow warden.” She purposefully ignored the knowing smirks Niall and Zevran exchanged as well as the roll of eyes from the witch.

DA:O

The room was…distasteful. Calling it a room was being far too generous. It was a cell, one of those rooms used by the guards who had the dubiously honorific duty of guarding those unfortunates that found themselves in the dungeons of the palace. Cells for those poor souls that there were to be no official records of ever being held.

Rough gray stone made up the walls of the small room, perfectly insulating against sounds escaping to the corridors beyond the heavy iron bound door. Two cots had been placed along the opposite walls, Teyrn Loghain stretched out upon one, fully bound at wrists and ankles. He was gagged for Arawn had no desire to listen to the man’s continuous threats and currently glaring up at the mage as he surveyed the bindings of the other cot.

The heavy door swung silently open, admitting a burly guard and two elves. Arawn rose to his feet, his eyes, a bright blue, skimming first across the tiny form of the elven woman before settling upon the taller, broader figure of the elven male he had acquired from Howe. He smirked, indicating the guard to settle the young elven male upon the cot and secure him tightly. He was pleased as the elf struggled and fought against the guard, seeking an escape from his fate. The elven woman merely stood, eyes vacant, in a near catatonic state.

It took several minutes for the guard to strap the male down, hissing as a fist connected squarely with his jaw. The human did not handle the elf carefully. Battered, bruised and bleeding from a split lip, the elf glared up at the human as the final restraint was tightened around his ankle.

With a nod, Arawn dismissed the guard.

He began to draw in his magic, pulling free a long, black bladed dagger from the folds of the Tevinter style robe he currently wore. As his power grew, his eyes darkened, taking on the blood red that marked a blood mage. He pulled the barely conscious elven female into the circle of chalk he had drawn on the floor, brushing her long, red hair back from her shoulder, exposing the slender column of her neck. Almost tenderly, he caressed her throat, his eyes glaring in intensity, as words of power began to spill from his lips. He raised the dagger, completely ignoring the shouts and struggles of the men behind him. Grasping the woman’s hair, he pulled her head back with a rough jerk, and she made not a sound - neither whimper nor gasp - as her throat was completely bared to him. The words - ancient Arcanum taught by the blood magisters of Tevinter - became courser, rougher, the power growing, filling the room. The air became heavy, the scent of iron and copper filled the air, and an unnatural chill permeated to the bone. Goosebumps rose on the woman’s exposed flesh, and with a shout, Arawn drove the dagger point deeply into the young woman’s neck, slicing through flesh, muscle, jugular and bone, nearly decapitating her. Blood spurted wildly from the horrendous wound, and, as the blood mage continued his chanting, allowing the body of the woman to slump to the floor, the blood rose, spiraling first around the maleficar as a whirlwind. He raised his arms, sending the spiral of blood rising upwards, and then spread his arms dramatically outwards, his fingers outstretched. The blood separated into two columns, each stretching out to the men strapped to the cots.

Loghain’s eyes widened as he tried to utter out his curses around the cloth binding his mouth. The blood wrapped itself around the human, cocooning him. Suddenly, it converged upon his ears, eyes, nose and mouth, forcing entry into his body. His body jerked, and he shook his head, seeking to prevent the invasion of the girl’s life blood. But, there was no hope, and soon every drop of the ghastly column gained entry. With a last spasm, Loghain laid still, his eyes open and vacant.

The elf ignored the struggles of the human across the way from him as he faced off against his own foe. Fear gleamed in his blue eyes, but he struggled bravely, clenching his teeth against the bloody invader. Like Loghain, however, he could not prevent the vile magic’s work, and almost as quickly as Loghain had succumbed, so, too, did he.

Arawn’s arms dropped to his sides, the words still flowing from his lips, his eyes, gleaming blood red, almost dripping bloody tears, focused upon the still form of the girl. He stepped closer, raising his arms over her body, the words still uttering from his throat, watching as the girl’s skin grayed, and then flaked from her bones as dry parchment, splintering into dust. The particles rose up in a vortex, spiraling upwards. Soon, the organs, bones and muscle of the girl flaked and splintered, joining the flesh in the cyclone that spun in front of the mage. Two forms emerged from the twisting column, vaguely humanoid. Each form stepped to the bound men, leaning over them. Fingerless hands settled upon each forehead and pressed down. Soon, the forms merged with elf and human, vanishing from sight.

Exhausted, the blood mage finished the ritual. Not a trace of the elven girl remained, not even her clothing, which had rotted and vanished. The elven male lay quietly, his blue eyes open, sweat soaking into his hair, darkening it to near brown. The blood mage stepped over, and was pleased to note that he yet breathed, his heart beat strong. He reached down with a strong hand and closed the disturbingly gem blue eyes. He repeated the examination and gesture over Loghain’s body. Then, satisfied that Loghain was now properly contained, the maleficar stepped from the cell, locking the door firmly behind him.

DA:O

Adela led Alistair into her room and quietly closed the door behind them. She paused, running a finger along the wavy grain of the door, her mind briefly taking in the high quality of the wood. With a sigh, she turned to Alistair, who was standing a few feet from her, watching her closely.

“Do you trust me, Alistair?’

Confusion marred his handsome face, bringing his brow together. “Overlooking that little temper tantrum I almost tossed…of course I do.”

“Okay, there is more I need to say, but I wanted to tell you before the others knew. You are not going to like that any better than you have already been enjoying this conversation.”

“Should I sit down?” he tried to joke, but was tense, picking up on Adela’s own concern.

“That…might be a good idea,” she offered with a small smile, waving at his chair. When he was settled in, she replied. “I thought I should tell you this part before letting the others in on it. It is rather…disturbing.”

“More disturbing than learning that the regent of Fereldan is a blood thrall and being imprisoned in the Fade?”

“What if I told you I know who the blood mage is holding the regent as a blood thrall?” She crossed her arms, her bluest of eyes fixed upon Alistair’s face.

He frowned. “You do?” he asked. “Who is it?”

Adela took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. She moved closer to Alistair, then knelt on the floor beside him. He had moved forward, his hands clasped, elbows on his knees. Her eyes closed as she tried to find the words to tell Alistair that not only did he have another older brother, but one who worked against them, against Fereldan. Seeing no other way around it, she opened her mouth.

“While I was in the Fade…,” she began, taking Alistair’s hands in her own, gently rubbing the back of his hands with her thumbs. “When I came upon the room where Loghain was confined to, another man was exiting the chambers, locking the door behind him. I hid in the shadows and he did not notice me. Alistair, the man looked like you and Cailan,” the young bastard of Maric stiffened, his back straightening out, his hands slipping free of Adela’s grasp. His eyes were wide in disbelief and he shook his head, even as Adela spoke her next words. “The blood mage holding Loghain prisoner and apparently working for control within the palace is called Arawn.”

She took a deep breath. “And he is another son of Maric.”

DA:O

Carefully tucking her hands inside the pockets of her robe, the elderly mage slowly walked the hall of the castle that led from Arlessa Isolde’s chambers toward her own. The Arlessa had asked for the elderly mage’s company for the better part of the day, stating that she found the older woman’s company soothing, her wisdom a means to see a way forward to the future.

Wynne paused briefly, turning back toward the younger woman’s door. She was physically recovering quite nicely, and had resumed her duties with patience and noble bearing. The mage could also see a bit of resignation in the woman’s attitude as well as a more subdued nature that had not been present when they had first met. She is grieving, the elderly mage thought as she resumed her pace back to her chambers. Grieving for a son who should not have perished; for a son who should never have known the horrors he had prior to his death.

A wizened hand reached out to the knob of her door, turning as the mage realized that the Arlessa, Orlesian born, raised to believe that those under her rule were all servants and therefore unworthy of her attention, had also changed significantly in that regards. She had noticed a more patient, grateful attitude toward servants and citizens alike. Perhaps some good can come from this tragedy, Wynne thought as she pushed her door open and stepped inside.

DA:O

Eamon paced his study, avoiding looking at the family portrait - commissioned just two years prior - that hung over the mantle of the fireplace. Upon awakening he had learned of the tragedy that had befallen Redcliffe, learned how his enemies had managed to poison him, how his son had perished. All because of a fear of magic, he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one large hand. The loss of his son hurt deeply, and he had trouble spending time with his wife as she had been partly to blame for the misfortunes of the village and his household. He understood her fear. However, although he still loved her, he found her company unbearable at the moment.

That his son died at the hands of Alistair hurt the older man greatly as well. Wynne and the other mage had explained, and Ser Gilmore had later confirmed, what had happened, how the young man had tried to forestall the inevitable for as long as possible. It was only when the lives of others were, yet again, threatened that he had to act. Logically, Eamon could accept it - as a noble, it was his place - his responsibility to oversee the welfare of those under his rule.

As a father, his heart was broken, and he had trouble accepting that his son - his only son and heir - was dead. And, given Isolde’s age, it was unlikely that another child would be blessed to them.

He sighed, heavily, turning away from those thoughts to others that were, at this time of national crisis, far more relevant.

There was the matter of securing the throne to the Silver Knight’s bloodline. Alistair was key to that preservation. He was concerned by some of the talk he had overhead from those members of Ser Gilmore’s party. That the elven artisan from Denerim was the Commander of the Grey Wardens was unimaginable to the Arl. How that happened was beyond the nobleman. That she would influence Alistair in any manner was disturbing.

He knew the rumors about her and Cailan. He did not for a moment believe any of the rumors, but had nevertheless made certain that they circulated amongst the lesser nobles. Her influence over Cailan and Anora had been great. Their focus on the lovely little elf and her kind had caused more than one disruption in the Landsmeet over the years, causing other, more important matters to be placed on hold or skimmed over far quicker than the noble would have liked.

If she had that kind of influence over Alistair, all of his plans and designs for himself and Fereldan could fall by the wayside.

He had heard Ser Gilmore and the Orlesian woman talk about Adela, and it was obvious by the tone of the man’s voice and the words he used that he held an affection for the elf. He tucked that piece of information to the back of his mind, hoping that the former knight’s influence over the elf would counterweigh any she may have over Maric’s son.

Gray eyes skimmed over to the door, as though penetrating to see down the corridors. Fortunately, he may well have the key to garner the young Theirin’s attention safely sequestered in the West Wing.

DA:O

Several days following Adela’s revelation regarding Loghain’s Fade prison and the identity of the blood mage that held him in thrall, and Alistair was still trying to process the information. He had not been surprised so much by the fact that there existed yet another bastard son of Maric. Given what the young man knew of the king, that only two bastards had emerged was a greater surprise.

What had been difficult to accept was the fact that a son of Maric would turn to blood magic, and then seek to usurp the throne of Fereldan. From what little he knew of Cailan, he believed that he and his royal brother had similar personality traits, and he believed those traits were more hereditary than taught, given Alistair’s own childhood. That a child of Maric’s could go so far against the grain…it was a bit staggering.

He glanced up from his bowl, and noticed that he sat at the dinner table, alone with his thoughts. Morrigan, in a surprisingly uncharacteristic move, had decided to go down to the village and look in on the newborn. Zevran and Niall had retired to their chambers, but only after the elf had, with a suggestive waggle of his brows, suggested that Alistair and Adela join the pair of men as well. Alistair’s face had heated crimson as he stuttered out an incoherent reply. Maker! He and Adela had not even…gone beyond kissing and cuddling and here the damnable elf was suggesting…! With a sly chuckle, Zev had wrapped his arm around Niall’s shoulder and the two disappeared into their rooms.

Finished with his meal, he placed it into the sink, promising to clean up in the morning. He went to Adela’s door and knocked, opening it upon hearing her welcome.

Adela sat on the floor before the fire, her arms wrapped around her bent knees, gazing into the fire. Smiling, Alistair made his way and sat down behind her, pulling her so that she was leaning back against him, his strong arms wrapped around her slender body. They spent the early part of the evening discussing a variety of matters - from the newest addition to the village population to wondering how their missing friends were faring in Redcliffe. That brought up more conversation from Alistair regarding his childhood, and the elf, once again, found it difficult to not resent the Arl who was supposed to have taken care of a young Alistair but instead did all in his power to make him as miserable and neglected as possible.

Her back stiffened slightly as he recounted how he had to spend weeks at a time in the kennels during a particularly bad winter storm in order to keep warm.

“I know you haven’t had the best of childhoods,” Adela’s voice was calm, deceptively so. “Throughout your life, no one has cared for you, watched out for your wellbeing. Somehow, people found it easy to simply put you to the side. I’m still rather upset with Maric for doing so.” She tilted her face so that she could look up into his down turned eyes. “I imagine that you are waiting for that moment when I pull the rug out from under you,” she put a small hand to his cheek, and he pressed his face to its warmth, closing his eyes. She realized just how close to the truth she was. “Believe me, Alistair, when I tell you I will never betray you. I will always be keeping your well being in mind.”

Alistair sighed, leaning down to place a kiss to her forehead. “I admit it, I am a little scared.”

“Sometimes I forget that you did not have a family that loved you, people who looked after you. And not just parents, either,” her eyes misted slightly as she thought of her family, her community and friends. “I know what it is to have people around who care for you. I know how important and empowering it can be. Eamon did not do right by you, love, and the Chantry is certainly no place for anyone to feel loved and wanted.”

Alistair grinned, bending further down to place a warm kiss on her lips. Adela snuggled closer to his warmth. “I almost feel guilty sometimes.”

Confused, Alistair asked, “Whatever for?”

She shrugged against his chest, brushing against the wool of his heavy shirt. “I knew your family, Alistair,” she twisted in his arms, gazing up into his face. “I knew your father and your brother. You should have been there as well, but for some foolish notion you were not.”

The elven woman had turned completely around in his arms, sitting cross-legged, his arms around her back. Alistair paused, staring at her, and realization dawned over him.

“Imagine that,” he muttered, his brown eyes fixed upon the fire behind the woman in his arms. “If I had been able to be with my family, you and I would’ve met a long time ago.” His eyes drifted down to Adela’s face, a wistful expression therein. “We could have been friends for all of this time. Maybe…”

Adela shrugged at that, nudging his slightly with her shoulder. “We don’t know that, Alistair.” She grinned up at him. “Perhaps you would have been the spoiled younger son, bullied by an older brother, and so would have bullied a younger, smaller girl. You could have been a brat!” She poked him, hard, in the chest.

“Hey!” He rubbed at the spot. “I don’t think so! I’d still the lovable slob I am now. Just, dressed better.” He grinned. “And with more cheese!”

“I doubt that.” Adela teased, smirking up into his face.

The grin left Alistair’s face after a moment, and he shook his head. “Naw, it would not have worked out. I never would have become a Warden, and I just can’t imagine not being one.”

She reached up and kissed the bottom of Alistair’s strong chin. “Who knows what would have happened, Alistair. There is a theory I once heard a very learned man talk about. He called it the butterfly effect, how one small occurrence - or a series of seemingly small, insignificant occurrences - can change and affect a much larger scheme.”

The young man nodded and she continued.

“He said that everything that is set upon its current path could be altered by the smallest of things happening. Imagine that a traveler comes to a crossroads and turns left instead of right. He then goes to a village that is under attack and helps save the villagers. The scholar suggested that a rock had been placed in that crossroads, causing the traveler to trip and sprain his ankle. He then turns right instead of left, knowing that there is a farmhouse nearby. His travels would have brought him somewhere else, and the village would have perished.”

“So, one small, insignificant change could have been the cause for a drastic result.” Alistair replied, recalling a similar theory during one of his lessons back at the Chantry.

Adela nodded, snuggling closer to Alistair. “So, as distasteful as things were, in either of our pasts, that they happened helped to bring us together. And not just for what we have between the two of us…”

“But with regards to the Blight itself,” Alistair grinned, hugging her closer. “Hmm…that’s a much nicer way to look back at my childhood. As a stepping stone to you.”

“Ah ha,” Adela raised her face, encouraging Alistair to place his lips upon hers. Their kiss deepened as his arms tightened around her body, her hands threading through his hair.

Maybe they could talk some more…later.
 

[SheilaD67]

I am not seeking to make social commentary with this story nor be an advocate for a cause. If I wanted to write something serious, I’d go be a biographer, an advocacy writer or a historian. Maybe one of those ‘self help‘ authors. But I‘m not. I write fantasy; this story is set in a make believe world of magic, demons, and darkspawn. Oh, and Arl Eamon.

Thank you for taking the time for your reviews: fighter chicks (I appreciate it when people take the time to make their thoughts heard, even if I do not agree or like what they say - although I do prefer signed reviews so that a dialogue can be commenced regarding same), Biff McLaughlin, CCBug, Nithu, Eriana10, Arsinoe de Blassenville (you should really, really read these ladies‘ stories - they are wonderful!), tgail73, xXBeninekoXx

Now, to continue with the story…this chapter is supposed to be mostly fun, with a few other scenes to keep the other plots moving along (all right, it‘s an emotional roller coaster! I was bored!). It‘s also designed to get the group left at Haven through the winter as well as grow and develop the relationship between Alistair and Adela. There was an ongoing theme I had noticed from in game that I am including herein. The next update will be a while, however, as I’m kind of in a writer’s block, and my other stories are demanding some attention.

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 37

He stared about him, unsteady and disoriented. Surrounded by a field of swirling gray mist, standing upon a gray surface at once hard as stone yet soft underfoot. He placed one tentative foot in front of him, testing the stone, finding the footing solid. Gem blue eyes gazed upwards as he turned, trying to get a sense of direction. All he saw was the unending gray mist.

He vaguely remembered being strapped down and that Maker be damned ritual that the human mage had cast. The identity of the human tied down next to him was unknown to him, but he figured that he may well meet up with the man, and perhaps, together, they could figure out where they were and how they could get out. A long, slender hand tapped his hip, and the elf wished fervently he had a weapon - a dagger or a sword. Even a stick at this point would make him feel less ill at ease. A great sigh escaped his lips, and he gazed about him. There was no help for it - he could either stand here for Maker knew how long or he could try and seek a way to better his predicament.

Picking a direction - he could not be certain of what bearing he was headed - he turned and began walking, looking for any landmark, any break in the endless gray that surrounded him.

DA:O

Adela was…well…she was bored. Alone in her chambers, without even any decent reading material, she stared blankly at the ivory she held in her hand. She had started the carving weeks before they had arrived at Haven, however she just could not find the ambition to work on it. It was almost as though the vision that had inspired her had just…left.

She scowled, carefully placing the item back into her pouch. Rising, she stalked to the window, glaring out at the gently falling snow. The others had gone out: Zevran was hunting and scouting, Niall and Morrigan making their rounds as the only healers in the village, and Alistair was checking on the repairs he had made to several of the homes (she frowned. She believed he said he would be at Adelaine‘s house). Each and every one of them, prior to making their own exits, had instructed the elf to not leave the Chantry as she was still not completed recuperated from her injuries, and had developed a slight cough during her convalescence. How would they know? She felt fine. And she wanted out!

Moping, she flopped into Alistair’s chair, feeling a slight sense of triumph that she was sitting in his chair without his permission. She was the leader, after all! Why did they think they could tell her what she could and could not do? With a peevish pout, she rose, picked up her daggers and stomped from the room.

In the chamber that had once served as the chapel, leaning against the far rear wall stood several combat dummies Alistair and Zevran had put together for practice. With a heavy sigh, the tiny elf tugged and pulled and struggled with one of the dummies, turning and spinning it upon its pedestal until it sat in center of the practice area. Glaring at the unoffending mannequin, she pulled her daggers and began stabbing, slashing and slicing at the straw stuffed dummy. After about an hour, she stood, panting heavily, leaning her hands to her knees, trying to catch her breath. She was exhausted and achy, but still bored.

She just really wanted to go outside and play in the snow.

Her blond head turned toward the heavy double doors that led to relative freedom from the stifling closeness of the building. She was the leader, after all, she reminded herself yet again. With a wince she straightened, rolled her shoulders to work out the stiffness. She went to her room and pulled out a heavy cloak and her fur lined boots. Grinning, feeling like a rambunctious child who found a way around parental rule, she pulled these on. Sheathing her daggers, she practically ran to the doors, feeling a sense of relief as her hands grasped the knobs, twisted them and getting ready to pull them open.

She was thrown off balance as the doors suddenly and unexpectedly swished open. Stumbling back from the doors, she watched as the large, snow covered and cloaked figure of Alistair stomped in, clearing the snow from his boots as he shook his cloak. She grimaced when his eyes fixed upon her, and a disapproving frown crossed his face. Feeling like a petulant child, the elven woman stood there, forcing a defiant glare to her eyes.

“What were you doing?” Alistair asked as he pushed the doors shut behind him.

Raising her chin slightly, Adela responded, “I was going outside.”

Shaking his head at her, he placed a large hand to her elbow and steered her back inside. “Oh, no you were not,” he scolded, moving her along with a gentle push. “You were already told you needed to remain inside until Niall and Morrigan were both satisfied you were fully recovered.”

“But…” she began, but Alistair just shook his head as he reached over and unfastened her cloak, pulling it free from her shoulders.

“No ‘buts’,” his grin widened as he saw the rebellious look in her blue eyes. “Those are your orders, Adela.”

Glaring at him, she yanked her cloak from his hands, and, with a toss of her head, stomped back to her room and slammed the door behind her.

Standing in the main chamber of the Chantry, Alistair just laughed as he shook his head.

DA:O

Elissa stretched out in the large tub, enjoying the heat of the soft, scented water that surrounded her. Leaning her head back against the tub’s rounded edge, she thought back to her conversation with Arl Eamon. The offer he had made was intriguing, and she smirked at the plan the wily old politician had detailed. He truly thought she would be interested in a union with a boy who was not even an acknowledged heir of Maric. Ah, well, it would prove interesting, however she decided to play it.

She shrugged, bringing the sponge up and squeezing the water from it. How she enjoyed the finer things in life. The months she had spent on the road and in the wilds since she left Highever Castle had been rough, to put it mildly. She had been unable to locate any allies, and the darkspawn emergence had hindered her progress even further. She had been very pleased when she happened upon the wardens and their group, and watched and waited for them to separate from the annoying little elven woman. As soon as she spotted Ser Gilmore and his rather eclectic troupe she decided it was time to make her presence known. She knew that she would have had a far more difficult time insinuating herself in the group had the knife-eared wench been about.

A sigh brushed passed her lips as she frowned. She had forgotten Ser Gilmore’s desire to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, having dismissed it as inconsequential at the time of Duncan‘s visit to her family home. That would make it far more difficult to control him, as he was no longer sworn to her family, but was now a recruit of an organization that owed fealty to no one - noble, king or country. However, that he brought her to Arl Eamon was a stroke of good luck on her part.

Especially where it seemed that the nobleman had a wish to make an alliance with her.

Yes, yes, she grinned as she moved forward, dunking her head under the water and began to wash her long hair. Things would turn out quite nicely for her, and keep her from becoming too bored during the winter months.

DA:O

All five fireplaces within the Chantry were blazing, filling the building with soothing, penetrating heat. Outside the fortress-like walls snow fell in a blizzard as the wind howled and moaned around the building, the winter’s breath whistling over the chimney tops with a fury.

Winter was now three months strong and this latest storm had been expected, at least on the villagers‘ part. The villagers had warned the wardens and their companions that winter could last four to five months in the mountains, and Alistair found himself briefly regretting the decision he and Roland had made with regards to how long to wait for winter to pass. With the timeline the two men had worked out, Roland and his companions, if they decided to return to Haven, could very well find themselves in the midst of another storm.

“Oh, Maker,” Alistair bemoaned as they sat eating that evening’s meal as another, more personal thought, hit him. Morrigan and Niall sat on the other side of Adela, with Zevran seated across from the male mage. They all looked over at the human warden as he said, “Roland is going to kill me.”

Morrigan actually giggled a little at that, having a good idea as to what the ex-templar referred to. Her eyes widened innocently at Adela’s questioning look.

“Why in the world would Roland kill you?” the elf asked of Alistair as she lifted the spoon to her lips.

“Yes, Alistair,” Morrigan all but purred, obviously taking pleasure in the man’s ill ease. “Do tell our fearless leader what transpired prior to the knight’s departure.”

“Alistair?” Adela was now concerned as she lowered her spoon.

“It’s not as bad as Morrigan is trying to make it out,” he sulked, obviously forgetting his own exclamation that started the entire conversation. “When it was obvious we’d need to remain put while you recovered, I thought that you would want us to get the ashes to the Arl as quickly as possible. So, I told Roland, Leliana and the Sten to continue on to Redcliffe and we would wait here while you recovered.”

Nodding her head, the elf responded. “And I agreed completely with that decision.” She did not see where the trouble was.

“Yeah, well,” he smiled briefly, and continued. “Roland wouldn’t hear of it. He flat out refused to follow my lead, and told me that the only way he’d listen to any commands that were not yours was if I recruited him into the Grey Wardens.”

Adela’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, Alistair. I seem to recall you telling me about that decision as well,” her displeasure at recruiting Roland was still evident in her voice, and Alistair found himself wincing slightly.

Nodding his head emphatically, wondering just how much trouble he was in, Alistair replied, “Well, remember that it was at his insistence.” He shrugged. “He had already all but been recruited into the Wardens by Duncan. He was determined to continue as such, and took the opportunity to make it official.” Alistair frowned at the elf. “After all, although the matter had been brought up before, you never fully answered him.”

Staring down at her bowl, she nodded. “I know.” She sighed. “I just…purposefully subjecting someone…” she trailed off, fully aware that non-warden ears were wide open. Regardless of what she may feel, she was not about to willingly expose any secrets. She sighed. “Its okay, Alistair. We already had this talk, and I understand why you did what you did. Really, I’m fine with it.”

With a flourish of her hand, she bade Alistair to continue, pointedly ignoring Morrigan’s chuckle as the witch resumed her meal.

“I, ah, told him that I wasn’t sending him off to, ah, get him out of the picture,” he ducked his head slightly as Adela’s head whipped up in astonishment. Her eyes wide, she then understood the source of Alistair’s discomfort.

“Oh,” was all she said, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as the circumstance fully settled. Then, smiling beatifically at the man she loved, she said, “Just blame me.” She began spooning the stew into her mouth in earnest. “Problem solved.”

“Excuse me?” Alistair quipped, leaning forward, a grin on his face. “Do you really want me to say that?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she nodded. “Why not? I‘m kind of getting used to being blamed for everything anyway.” Then she grinned, leaning forward to place a kiss on the man’s lips. “After all, you can tell him that I pursued you relentlessly while he was gone.” She almost purred at this, bringing a flush to the young man’s face.

Settling back, a goofy grin on his face, the warden nodded his head. Resuming his meal, he muttered. “I rather like that.” He chuckled as he thought more on it. “I guess that can be the catch all explanation.” Adela raised her head, her brow furrowed in confusion. “I’ll just blame you for everything.”

He did not bother to duck as Adela’s napkin hit him squarely in the face.

DA:O

He felt like he was being drawn toward the palace that stood before him, the gray mists evaporating the nearer he came to the building. He knew the palace, had seen it during his trip to Denerim, and this monstrosity looming ahead of him barely resembled the majestic structure.

Bodies - elven and human - littered the streets, leading up to the palace‘s front gates. The wrought iron gate that opened to the vast courtyard had been ripped from their hinges, as had the grand double doors admitting entrance into the palace. He frowned, searching for a weapon he could use. His eyes settled upon the near skeletal figure of a man dressed in heavy plate, his longsword lying beside him. Expelling a sigh of relief, the elf bent down and picked up the blade, testing its balance before nodding in satisfaction. The fine blade would more than serve as a means for protection. As an after thought, he picked up the guard’s shield, eyeing the armor covering the corpse. He dismissed the idea, realizing that the armor was far too big and heavy for him to effectively wear. Perhaps he could locate some leather or splint mail within the palace?

He stood before the broken doors, peering into the dark depths of the antechamber. Rubble and other ruin glared back at him, attesting to the ruin he had witnessed throughout the noble quarter. The elf knew he was not in Denerim, knew that he was not entering the palace of Fereldan. He had a suspicion that he was somehow trapped within the Fade or experiencing some hallucination, a result of the maleficar’s magic. Why he was here was another story, one that he had no means of discerning at this time. With a final glance around the courtyard, the elf stepped through the doorway and into the bastion of the Fereldan royalty.

DA:O

Winter was coming to an early thaw. That was what the village elders were telling the wardens and their companions. Relief swept through the group as thoughts of rejoining the rest of their band began to take precedence. Preparations for the trek to Redcliffe had begun to be made and every day passed with inessentials being packed away and Zevran making regular forays beyond his normal hunting boundaries and further down the mountain to test the trails.

One bright, sunny day found Alistair and Adela standing in one another’s arms amidst the trees by the Chantry.

“So,” Alistair said lazily, smiling down into Adela’s flushed face. “Have I told you lately I love you?”

Smiling up at him, she shrugged. “I seem to recall those words coming out of your mouth fairly recently.”

“Hmmm…” he hummed, burying his face into her hair. “Well, it won’t hurt you to hear it again, will it?”

Pulling away from him, she gazed up into his face. “I love you, Alistair.”

“Ah ha!” he chuckled, swooping in for a kiss, then pulling back. “I love you, too, Adela.”

He pulled her against his chest, hugging her tightly, allowing the warmth and happiness he had never felt in his entire life sweep over him. “So, tell me,” he murmured. “Just which of my more manly attributes finally made you see reason?”

Giggling, she pushed him away, grinning into his face. Her blue eyes studied his features, taking in the wide smile, sparkling eyes, and face just filled with love. “All of you,” came her simple reply as she settled back into the warmth of his arms.

“Really?” he asked, surprised by the response.

Nodding, she murmured. “You’re not a puzzle to be examined piece by piece, Alistair. Each of your quirks, smiles, pouts, sense of humor, your heart and soul…bravery in battle, willingness to put yourself in danger for members of our group…everything that makes up the whole of you is what I love about you.” She grinned up at him. “Helps you are so handsome as well.”

“Handsome, am I?” he purred, rubbing his nose against hers.

“Alistair, you know you’re handsome. Or have you completely dismissed all the looks you get from women wherever we go?” She grinned. “I seem to recall Zevran flirting with you more than once.”

He grimaced. “Zevran flirts with anyone and anything with two legs.” An expression of pure confusion crossed his face. “And just what are you talking about?” he asked, frowning slightly. “What women?”

Her head tilted back slightly. “Oh, you mean to tell me you never noticed?’

Grinning in victory, Alistair replied as he lowered his head for another kiss. “What other woman could possibly compare to the beauty I now hold in my arms?”

Adela moved her head away from Alistair’s lips, a surprisingly serious look upon her face. “Really?” she tilted her head away as he dove in, again, for a kiss, hitting her cheek instead. “You are really going to tell me that you don’t notice any other woman? That you don‘t think of being with someone else?”

Sighing heavily, Alistair settled back, staring at Adela. “Why won’t you believe me when I say it’s true?”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Adela shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe it’s because I’ve seen the women who stare at you,” she admitted. “Even Adelaine has an interest in your. And she’s quite nice.” This last part came out almost as a whisper.

Alistair’s eyes widened and then he laughed, a great rumbling sound that shook his body, echoing from his chest. Adela glared at him, pulling back from him and crossing her arms to her chest. “What?” she demanded, poking him in the chest to get his attention.

“I cannot believe it!” he chuckled, tears running from his eyes. “You, of all people, are jealous!”

Frowning, she shook her head, pushing herself away from the man. “I am not!” she denied.

Shaking his head, the human pulled Adela back into his embrace, grinning away. “You are jealous.” he teased lightly. She ducked her face away from his, trying to ignore him.

A great sigh burst from her and she glared at the man. “Well, what if I am?” she demanded, scowling.

“Why would you be?’ he countered, unable to believe that this beautiful woman would be jealous of anyone. Hadn’t he let her know just how much he loves her?

But Adela remained silent, a sullen look upon her face, one that betrayed more than just mere jealousy. Alistair leaned back, looking at her pose. He did not doubt that she was jealous; he recognized the look upon her face, the posture her body had assumed. He recalled assuming that posture, that look whenever he had thought of either Loghain or Roland.

But that was before Adela had proclaimed her love for him. Alistair. The unwanted baby whose father had pawned him off to a nobleman who in turn treated him little better than a servant. A nobleman who then, in turn, pawned him off to the Chantry. This elf, who understood well the love and affection of family, friends and community, loved him, accepted him. Was even angry with friends of hers - close friends - on his behalf. And, all that feeling of abandonment had vanished, wiped away.

The mirth suddenly vanished when Alistair realized that, just as he needed, she needed some acknowledgement of how much she was treasured. He had thought that his actions spoke volumes, and he told her how he felt often enough. But, jealousy was not a rational emotion. Adelaine’s son, Josef, spent a great deal of time following after the man. And Adelaine herself had remarked, more times than once, how she wished for a good man, a good father figure, for her children. And that she thought quite highly of Alistair in that regard.

A gentle smile crossed Alistair’s face, and he thought he understood. Although Adelaine had never made any indication of pursuing Alistair, Adela was well aware of the human woman’s desire for a father for her children. And with Josef constantly following Alistair around and Alistair’s helping out around her household…

He stepped nearer to the elven woman, gazing down at her. “You have nothing to worry about, you know,” he softly said to her. She raised her face, quirking an eyebrow up at him. He placed his hands gently upon her shoulders.

“Really?” There was still a bit of disbelief in her voice. “Adelaine is quite pretty,” she said quietly, frowning. “And obviously can give you children…”

That was it. Right there. Alistair went down to his knees, firmly gripping Adela’s shoulders. “Adela,” he said, his voice firm yet loving. “I know what the taint does to a Warden,” she raised her eyes to his. “If you and I remain together, and never have children, I would still count myself as the luckiest man in the world because I would have you.”

Adela blinked, forcing the tears back that had threatened. “I don’t know why it bothers me so,” she admitted, stepping closer to press her face against his chest.

Rubbing her back, he nodded. “Didn’t you tell me once that, as an elf, it would have been your duty to marry and have elven children,” he felt her nod in assent. “You told me that all of your life you had expected to have children. It was important to your community, and so became important to you.” He gently pushed her back so that he could look into her face. “But, trust me when I say that I would be the happiest man ever to walk Thedas if all I had was you and your love to my dying days.”

With those words, Adela relaxed, pulling Alistair into an embrace. She muttered ‘sorry’ into his chest, and he merely stroked her hair, planting a kiss upon the crown of her head.

DA:O

The snows had ceased falling, and the bright sunshine had begun to melt away the snow that remained upon the ground. Teagan had advised that within the next month spring thaw should arrive and, with that, Mud Season. Roland had chuckled at that, recalling that Mud Season in Highever was mostly brought about by the heavy rains that accompanied the arrival of spring. Further South, Mud Season was what happened when the snows melted away, leaving behind nothing but, well, mud.

The knight was getting anxious to reunite with those friends he had left behind at Haven. He was anxious to see Adela again as well. The time he had spent at Redcliffe castle, in more conversations with Arl Eamon regarding Adela and Alistair than the former knight was comfortable with, the higher his anxiety to just leave and begin their journey. However, he and Alistair had set a deadline, which was still weeks away, and one he was not going to disrupt by allowing his discomfort to unsettle him.

Besides, he really wanted to keep a closer eye on Elissa. And, honestly, he had no desire to bring her anywhere. Especially not anywhere near Adela.

He had noticed that the Cousland heir and Arl had spent a great deal of time together, all the while Eamon had pushed Isolde further and further away. At first, the knight had seriously considered that perhaps the elder Guerrin and Cousland had taken up an affair, and that thought alone had made him slightly ill. However, the more he watched, and the more Leliana - ever perceptive and watching Leliana - had informed him, the more he suspected that the conversations and time spent between the two had less to do with an alliance between Highever and Redcliffe and more of matters involving Alistair. Leliana had agreed with his assessment, and that did not make him feel any better.

And there was nothing he could do at this juncture, other than to continue to watch and be wary. Once they were united with their companions, Roland would be able to forewarn the wayward Theirin.

DA:O

The young messenger stood in the antechamber, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. He had practically run all the way from Redcliffe to Denerim, anxious to earn the bit of coin the Regent’s man had offered. That amount of coin could help feed his family through the rest of the winter and through the summer!

Voices sounded from the room to his left, and the young man stopped his fidgeting, standing straighter, tugging at his tunic to make certain all was in place. He glanced down at his boots and grimaced at the mud thereupon. Although snow still covered the ground, he had still managed to get his boots dirty! Nervous, his gaze shifted upwards, hoping he had not done some outstanding insult by standing in the middle of the grand hallway with dirty boots.

He tried not to gape as the two well dressed men - obviously nobles - stepped into the hall. The blonde’s eyes immediately shifted to his form, and he found himself unable to turn away from that penetrating gaze. The other man by his side was smaller, darker, with a hawkish face and hooked nose. The taller man patted the other upon the shoulder, and then, together, they stepped to stand before the young man.

He bowed deeply, knowing he stood in the midst of two noblemen. The elder of the two, the darker one, narrowed his eyes at the messenger, but the blond merely grinned.

“I understand you have news from Redcliffe?” the blond prompted.

“Ah, yes, yes, milord,” the young man stammered, gasping for breath, trying to calm his nerves.

“What is your name, lad?” the same man asked, his tone friendly and soothing.

“Bowdan,” he answered quickly, relaxing instantly, amazed that the man would be interested in his name.

“Ah, well, then Bowdan,” the blond continued, “I am Lord Arawn. This is Teyrn Howe,” Bowdan gasped again, nervously bowing to the men. “What news?”

“Oh, y-y-yes,” he straightened, fumbling for the rolled and sealed parchment. “I was bid to deliver this to your hands, milord,” he said as he handed the missive over.

Arawn smiled warmly at Bowdan, pulling free a pouch of silver that hung at his hip. “Here, lad,” he tossed the pouch to the boy. “This is for you. I am very impressed you managed to get this communiqué to us with the roads such as they are.”

The boy stood, staring at the heavy pouch he held in his hands, barely registering what Arawn had said. Then, stuttering, he thanked the man’s generosity. Arawn then called the butler forward, advising that Bowdan be taken to the kitchens and there given something to eat. With a nod and a bow the butler complied, pulling a thankful Bowdan in his wake.

Smirking, Arawn turned to Howe, who was watching the exchange with mild amusement. “Is that lad going to ever see the light of day again?” the Teyrn asked, already knowing the answer.

Arawn merely grinned at his friend as he tore open the seal, his blue eyes scanning over the heavy scrawl of his agent. That grin widened significantly. “Come, Rendon,” he said as he handed the missive to his friend. “Let us get a drink. I believe that you shall be having company before winter’s end.”

His own eyes reading over the missive, Arawn’s grin was matched by Howe’s own. “Indeed,” the Howe murmured. “It would seem that my dearest Lady Cousland has been located.”

[SheilaD67]

Thanks to everyone who has been following along, especially to those who review: Eriana10, Nithu, tgail73, Katrina-Irene, Gaspode, xXBeninekoXx, Biff McLaughlin

But especially to Arsinoe de Blassenville & CCBug, who helped me get this story back on track by helping me deal with my writer’s block. I had started to doubt this story and the character of Adela and her relationship with Alistair, but they both encouraged me to just keep writing her/them as she/they come to me, rather than try and force her into a mold that just wouldn’t work for her. She’s not going to please everyone; so she’s just going to be herself and see where that leads her.

I am loving everyone’s reaction to Elissa. She’s like the anti-Adela!

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 38

They were packed and ready to begin their trek down the mountainside and to Redcliffe. Adela stood in the center of the room that had been hers during their months-long stay in Haven. So much had happened while they were there, and yet to Adela it did not seem as though enough had been done. Her injuries while they had fought against the high dragon had put their important mission on hold. Certainly, Alistair had taken the lead (as she had always known he could) and separated the group to ensure getting the Ashes to Arl Eamon. She still felt a pang of guilt, however irrational it was, over the delay.

Other things were taking hold in her mind, and she was uncertain how to deal with them. She wished with almost childish need to be home, back at the Alienage, her father and Shianni there, ready with waiting ear to help guide and direct her. Anora’s advice would be most welcome as well, for the more experienced and older woman would have an insight even her more adventurous cousin may not possess.

But Adela did not have the luxury of home or old friends. But, she did have new friends, and a new, budding love that was causing her confusion and questions.

She had been tempted so many times to and speak with Morrigan, the only woman from their band to remain behind. However, she quickly realized that Morrigan had even less experience with men or people in general than she did.

Speaking with Zevran seemed too…strange. His philosophy was to ‘take pleasure where you can’ and damn the rest. Not exactly the kind of advice the young elf was seeking, especially when she wanted it regarding a relationship she would hope would last for a lifetime - however long that would be.

Best to leave it all until they got to Redcliffe, she decided, raising her head and taking a determined step to where her pack lay. Once there, she could talk with Leliana, or even Wynne, to get their perspective and advice. Wynne loved giving advice, and Leliana was far more worldly than the once sheltered elf. Between the two of them, Adela was certain she would garner the guidance she needed as she treaded along in unfamiliar territory.

Alistair’s voice called to her from the antechamber of the Chantry. With a sigh, she hefted her pack and, after taking one last look around to be certain she had missed nothing, the elven warden left the room and followed the others into the village and down the front stairs.

DA:O

Running her hand over her blond hair, Anora stared into the mirror, taking note of the dark circles under her eyes and the worry lines that marred the corners of her mouth. A tension was in her stomach, and she held a hand to it, trying to calm herself for the series of meetings she would have to endure that day.

So many months after the disastrous occurrence at Ostagar, and she still missed Cailan’s jovial presence. They had been good together - foils for one another. Cailan’s easy going manner put nobles and commoners alike at ease, his quick mind immediately open for whatever issues had brought them before them. Anora’s own pragmatism and dagger sharp intellect could then ferret out the information those same nobles and commoners sought to keep hidden, and then, once all cards were on the table, find the solution necessary for the greater benefit of all.

Nowadays, she sat council either alone or with her father by her side. This day, her father would be absent, needing to attend to some issues regarding the Bannorn. However, as this meeting dealt more with the Arling of Denerim, Rendon Howe, in his capacity as the Arl, would be sitting council with her.

She shuddered. The man made her uneasy. She recalled many conversations with Cailan and Adela regarding the man, and each of them had agreed with her assessment of the scheming noble. He was untrustworthy, doing everything in his power to make it appear as though he had only the good of Fereldan at heart. But, merely speaking with the man made his very nature - selfish, calculating - come to the surface, and anyone with eyes to see could be aware.

It still baffled her why her father placed so much importance upon the vile man’s shoulders.

Her elven handmaiden, Erlina, stepped lightly into the room. Her sharp eyes taking in the Queen’s stoic appearance, and a small frown turned the corners of her full lips downward. Anora gave the elf a small smile, grateful for the Orlesian’s presence even though she was still uncertain how much she could trust the young servant.

With a quick brush of her fingertips along her cheeks, Anora turned toward her servant. With a nod of her regal head, she stepped from her chambers, making her way to the Throne room.

Today’s discussion would be dealing with the issues the Alienage had, and Anora was hoping to gather information on just what, exactly, had been going on in there.

DA:O

The elf paused, glancing down at the bodies that were strewn across the marble floor of the antechamber. Each of the bodies were in various states of decay, some appearing only hours dead, while others were nearly skeletal. A shudder coursed through his frame and he rolled his broad shoulders, hands tightening upon blade and shield as he walked past the bodies and up the flowing staircase.

The palace was eerily silent, and he paused at the top of the stairwell. To his right was a corridor devoid of debris, clearly lit and almost welcoming. To his left, rubble and debris lay scattered across the floor, the ceiling broken, allowing a view into the floor level above. The torches in the sconces spluttered, creating a wavering light down the hall. The scent of decay and rot wafted to his nose from that direction.

“The path less traveled…” he muttered, bracing himself as he turned to the left.

Stepping lightly over the debris, the elf was relieved that the body count on this level was less than on then floor below. A noise came to his ears, and he paused, staring ahead cautiously. The sounds of heavy footsteps could be heard, and the young elven man raised his weapon, preparing to meet whatever foe came his way.

He was surprised when the dangerous foe he had expected was an older human man with black hair. As the man approached, he realized that the newcomer was the same man that had been present when the blood mage performed his dark magic.

“Stop right there, human,” the elf warned, his voice strong as his hands gripped weapon and shield. The human did, indeed, pause, his pale blue eyes narrowing only slightly as he took in the figure of the armed elf standing mere feet away. Slowly, he raised his hands, indicating he is unarmed.

“Who are you?” the elf demanded, standing straight and tall, gem blue eyes narrowing as he continued to stare at the human. He was certain that the human was the reason - the blame - that he had been trapped in this plane by that blood mage. And he will have his answers.

The human blinked, “My name is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir,” he introduced himself, using his full name and title as he seldom had to these days. The surprise was evident on his face that he must do so now, especially to an elf living within the confines of Denerim.

The elf nodded his head, his eyes no longer narrowed or threatening. “I have heard of you, Teyrn Loghain. In Highever, your name is spoken often as the one who saw the value of elves during the rebellion.”

Highever? Loghain’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the elf before him. He was tall, very tall, broad shouldered, torso slimming down to narrow hips. Muscular, the elven man was built like a warrior. The confidence with which he held the blade and shield was also evident. Strange, for one from an alienage to be so familiar with weapons.

“So, you are from Highever?” Loghain asked needlessly, as the young man had already revealed as much. The elf’s eyes once again narrowed as he interpreted the question as a blow to his own truthfulness.

So, the elf snorted. “Obviously, if that is where I’ve heard of you,” he muttered. “After all, had I the pleasure of spending my entire life in Denerim’s alienage, I’m certain I would have heard of you here.”

Loghain stood, watching the young elf. Finally, the elf sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, grimacing at the length of it. “I apologize, my Lord,” the elf turned and faced the human face on. “I am a bit…unnerved. Events of these past few months have been…unusual, to say the least.”

Here, the human allowed himself a slight smirk. “I would have to agree with you, young man,” he conceded, still watching the elf closely. The elf’s handsome face scrunched up with distaste and nodded. “Might I inquire as to your name?” The elf looked up at the man, frowning. “After all, it would seem as though you and I are the only company each of us will be seeing for some time.”

Sighing, the elf turned. “True. And, again, I apologize for my ill manners. My name is Nelaros Marks.”

Loghain nodded at the younger man. “From Highever, obviously.”

“As I said, my Lord, your name is well known amongst elves as mostly one of the few humans outside the Cousland family to understand the value of an elf by your side.”

A small grin crossed Loghain’s thin lips as he thought back those decades before to the Night Elves, a legion of elven archers he had the privilege of putting together. “How did you end up in Denerim?”

Nelaros smirked, “I was betrothed to perhaps the most beautiful girl ever to grace Thedas.” Loghain did not miss the rather dreamy quality of the young man’s voice, and he held off a roll of the eyes at such. The elf’s face clouded over, though, as he continued. “She and several others from the wedding party were kidnapped by the Arl‘s son. Her cousin and I broke into the manor to save them. I was…too late to prevent her being assaulted, but she had fought off her attacker and managed to find us. Her cousin was badly beaten and brutalized, and another girl was killed for trying to fight back.” He snorted, his eyes darkening with anger at the memory. “I thought I was dead, too. Imagine my surprise when I awoke days later in the dungeon, stripped down and tied to a rack.” His gaze swept over the walls, peering further into the dankness. He was certain he had heard…something. He turned to look over at the human noble. “I think I would have preferred remaining dead.”

Nelaros’ eyes shifted back toward the darkness, and Loghain found his own gaze turning in that direction as well. Yes, there was something moving about, just down the corridor. What it was, neither man could tell. It shuffled and scraped along the floor, sounding almost as though it was dragging a heavy burden behind it. Nelaros scanned the ground, spying another well armed and armored body lying thereupon.

“Arm yourself, my Lord,” the elf said as he straightened, bracing himself.

Loghain’s own eyes scanned the floor, but…”With what?” he snorted, scowling at the elf’s back. “There are no weapons or armaments nearby.”

Confusion marred Nelaros’ face, and the elf glanced back down at the body. “There is the body of a guardsman just three feet from where you stand,” he instructed, turning his eyes back to the corridor.

“No, there is not.”

Sighing, not ready to try and puzzle that out, Nelaros handed the human his own sword and shield, and then bent down to retrieve the longsword and heavy shield upon the body. Loghain’s eyes widened as he saw the weapon and shield appear in the elf’s hands, and his gaze swept back to the floor. He still did not see the body of the guard, and briefly wondered at that as he shifted his own stance, holding the blade at the ready, the shield firmly attached to his forearm.

The elf’s stance stiffened slightly, and the scraping dragging noise became louder. Nelaros started whispering something, and Loghain realized it was a prayer, spoken in elvish. He glanced over at the elf, wondering where he had learned Dalish. He thought he recognized some of the words spoken coming from Adaia’s lips during their battles together during the rebellion.

A hissing sound accompanied the other, and both men could feel the heat emanating from the direction they faced. They spared a glance toward one another, their faces set, weapons ready as the form flowed into view.

Flowed seemed an appropriate description of how the being that pursued them entered their field of vision.

DA:O

The snow was melting, and bright sunshine shone through the window of the opulent room provided by Arl Eamon. Elissa sighed contentedly as she turned the page of the book of Orlesian poetry she had borrowed from the estate’s expansive library. Seated upon the window box, she leaned back against the warm glass of the window, soaking up the sunshine and warmth.

She tugged the woolen blanket over her lap, straightening out the folds of the skirt to her dress. There was a slight noise to her right, and she glanced up briefly. Everything was in its place, and she turned back to her book.

A noise in the sitting room of her suites roused her from her study, and she rose, irritated at being disturbed. Opening the door, she peered in. Seeing nothing amiss, she shut the door firmly. Straightening, she started to turn to head back to her window perch when a strong arm went around her waist, a dagger pressed firmly against her neck.

“Ah, your Ladyship,” a smooth Fereldan voice, accompanied by hot breath, said in her ear. “You have been most difficult finding.”

With a sigh, she allowed her body to relax. “Who would be so interested in my whereabouts, might I ask?” her voice held an almost bored quality, and the man behind her chuckled.

“His Grace, Teyrn Howe, requests the pleasure of your company,” the hand at her waist shifted, and he turned the young woman about. A plain, bearded face, smirking, greeted her. A quick glance about told the young noblewoman that at least four other men, dressed in dark leathers and hooded, stood in the shadowed corners of her room.

“Teyrn Howe, is it?” she scoffed, turning her glare to the one who had physically assaulted her. “Why should I care if he desires my presence or not?”

The hand at her waist moved upwards, clasping her forearm in a vice like grip. “Come now, My Lady,” her assailant all but purred. “That is for the two of you noble folk to discuss. Not something we commoners would know a thing about.”

Rolling her eyes, she glared at the man, upset for the disturbance to her daily routine. She glanced down at the dagger in his hand, and the others openly sheathed (and she was certain that there were many more hidden upon the lanky body).

“And what, if say, I should scream?” the Lady asked, a dark brow quirking upwards toward her hairline.

That chuckle again, and then he replied, “’Twould be an awful shame, that, your Ladyship,” his voice took on a decidedly darker quality while still managing to retain the playfulness the conversation had began with. “I’d have to kill whoever came through that door, and you would still have to accompany me back to Denerim.” He shrugged. “No great loss, really. But my orders are to retrieve you and bring you back, unharmed. If we get into a tussle here…” he offered another shrug, his intentions clear.

Elissa stared at the man for a moment. “Denerim?” Elissa asked, frowning. “I would have thought Howe would be at Highever.”

Howe’s agent merely shrugged his shoulders. “Man’s collecting titles and properties like a **** does coin,” he remarked, gesturing her toward her wardrobe. “Now, you’d best get better attired for travel, your Ladyship. The snow’s are cleared, but air’s still a mite bit cold.”

Glaring at him, she turned toward her wardrobe, and began pulling out traveling clothes.

DA:O

Nelaros spun about, his blade and shield raised as Loghain rushed passed. The pair stood for the moment, Loghain bent over, hands on knees as the elf scanned the area.

With a glance to his companion, Nelaros asked, “Feeling your age, I take it, Your Grace?”

Loghain shot the impudent man a glare and then straightened, moving to take his stance by the elf’s side. “Damnable demons,” the Teyrn muttered, glaring into the dank darkness that surrounded them.

“Encounter them often?” Nelaros asked, the slightest hint of fear coloring his voice.

Nodding, Loghain replied, “When I was first being trapped herein, I had the misfortunate of encountering the vile things often. However,” he turned his gaze outwards. “They were not intent upon harming me, merely scaring me while containing me.”

“I take it the containment worked,” Nelaros did not mean for the sharpness in his tone to carry through, but he and Loghain had already figured out that Nelaros, for whatever reason, had been trapped in the Fade as a means to contain Loghain. A bit of resentment was only natural.

Loghain, his own mind on the same train of thought, restrained his irritation at the elven man. “So it would appear.” He drawled out instead, his eyes sharp and intent upon the gloom.

A grimace crossed Nelaros’ face. “How many does that make?” he asked, having lost count of how many of the fiery demons they’ve had to face. Now he wished he had taken the time to armor himself, even with the heavy plate humans seem to love so much. His clothing was burnt, as were portion of his flesh. Some of his hair had been singed as well. He glanced around, looking for armor while he awaited Loghain’s tally.

“I would say four, and several of their lesser minions,” the human muttered, rubbing a burn mark on his hand. “I cannot hear anything further at the moment.”

“Perhaps they have given up their pursuit?” the elf asked hopefully, although he truly doubted it.

A great sigh heaved from Loghain’s thin lips. “I would doubt it highly,” he muttered. “My foe is relentless.”

“Humph,” Nelaros scoffed. “Too bad they take it so easy on you. They seem very determined to kill me.”

Loghain nodded, shifting his sword to his shield hand to clap a reassuring hand to the elf’s broad shoulder. “I do apologize for that, young man,” he almost smirked at the surprised glance the younger man shot him.

He bit back a scathing retort, knowing full well it would do no good. Loghain was as much a prisoner - perhaps more so - as he. After all, at the very least Nelaros was being offered escape through death. Who knew that torments awaited Loghain within the Fade?

“I wonder how much time has passed,” the elf murmured to try and keep his mind active and to break the silence. He knew keeping quiet would not serve them so well here. The demons seemed to know where they were regardless of what stealth they utilized.

There was the sound of cloth rustling as Loghain shrugged his shoulders. “It is difficult to say, here in the Fade. Despite the amount of time I have spent herein, I still have not quite mastered my surroundings.” Unlike another, he thought as his gaze continued to pierce the gloom.

“I had always thought only mages could traverse the Fade,” the elf remarked.

“This mage has magics I have never seen before,” Loghain answered. “But, I do know of one non-mage who seems able to traverse the Fade easily enough.”

“I don’t suppose you could contact this someone, could you?” there was sarcasm in the elf’s voice, but also some hopeful questioning.

Shaking his head, Loghain replied, “I had tried, when I first found myself here. Just before encountering you.” He frowned. “But either she is dead or the wards Arawn has placed around this prison are stronger than before…I cannot say.”

“She?” Nelaros raised an eyebrow, determined to not give into despair. Mindless and pointless banter could help in that.

Pale blue eyes narrowing, Loghain settled his steady gaze upon the elf. “Indeed.” Was all he replied.

An hour passed, and the pair remained unmolested. Nelaros asked Loghain if there was a room he felt was defensible, and the human nodded, leading the elf to his room. Perhaps they could get some rest before their next battle.

DA:O

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Eamon shouted, pushing passed the servant and stepping into the room he had allocated to the Lady Elissa.

The young elven servant stammered an apology. “Her…she and her belongings are gone, Your Grace.”

Eamon closed his gray eyes, muttering slightly under his breath. With Elissa’s disappearance, his plans for securing the throne under Alistair would greatly be hampered. Collecting his thoughts and his temper, he turned to the frightened young woman.

“Have Ser Perth and his knights meet me in the great hall,” he instructed with a wave of his hand. The servant nodded once, and then quickly scampered away, trying to put as much distance between herself and her lord.

Ser Perth and four of his knights met with the Arl within the hour. After obtaining their orders to thoroughly search the surrounding areas for the Lady Cousland, the knight took his leave.

Once they were out of the hall, he glanced back, puzzled as to why the Arl was so adamant on their finding the wandering noblewoman. After all, Lady Cousland had arrived with the companions and was not in any way bound to either that group or the Arl himself. If she had decided to leave…

The young man shook his head, astonished with himself for even questioning his orders. However, he had taken note that the Arl had been behaving strangely since his awakening from the poison induced coma. And his attentions to the young woman had been…unnerving at best. With a nod to his men, the knight mounted up, and, with a final reiteration of their orders, the knights separated to search for the wayward noble.

　

[SheilaD67]

Thank you all so very much for the overwhelming support and interest I’ve seen for this story. Favs and alerts still keep coming up, and the reviews! Thanks to everyone for reading, but most especially those who take the time to review: mutive, Nithu, Katrina-Irene, Arsinoe de Blassenville, CCBug, Superstar Kid, Biff McLaughlin, Shakespira

As an aside, I had trouble deciding on the last name for Nelaros. I could not find it in the wiki or codex. So, I just made one up. Well, not really. The guy who voiced him in game was Stefan Marks. I loved his voice so much that I decided that would be his last name: Marks. *grins* Aren’t I clever? No? Ah, well…

Ahm…anyway, back to the story…

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 39

“I thought that you said that the snow had melted,” Adela griped, pouting at Alistair’s broad back.

“No,” the man responded, patience wearing thin at this point. “I said that the villagers advised that the weather had broken early, and that we should be able to get through the pass without any real problems.” He adjusted his cloak, pulling it over the leather of the armor he wore when they were walking. Despite being strong enough to carry his heavier armor with ease, trudging through knee high snow wearing it was another matter entirely.

Making a face at his back, Adela trudged through the snow, which came to mid-thigh, glancing around at the bare trees and rocks as they made their way through the mountainside pass. She gave a great sigh, smirking over at Morrigan and Niall, who trudged along just in front of her. She glanced back toward the village, now many hours behind them. Brother Genetivi had decided to remain until the roads were completely clear. He advised them to visit him in Denerim when summer returned.

“I thought you wanted to get outside,” Alistair continued, glancing back at the elven woman, a slight grin on his handsome face. “Well,” he waved a hand to encompass the entire outdoors, “we’re outside.”

“No,” Adela retorted, dragging the word out several syllables. “I wanted to get outside and play.” She tossed her hands into the air. “You know: make snowmen, have snow ball fights, make snow angels…fun stuff. This,” she waved at the path. “is definitely not fun stuff.”

Morrigan sniggered and Niall merely shook his head.

“Adela,” Alistair said, putting on his best mature voice, unconsciously mimicking a tone of voice Duncan had used on the young man many, many times, “we are Grey Wardens. You are the Commander of the Grey. We have to act more dignified.”

“Yeah,” she snorted, muttering. “Because that so is us, right down to our small clothes.”

Choking, Alistair stumbled. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she moped, kicking at the offending snow. The elven woman glanced around, and then bent down to the snow. Rising, patting the snow she held, she called out in a sing-song voice. “Oh Alistair.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Alistair stopped, shaking his head. “What?” he asked as he turned about. He sputtered as the cold ball of snow hit him squarely in the face.

“Oh, nothing,” Adela giggled, giving out a shriek as the man decided to forgo his earlier decision of maintaining quiet dignity, and dove at the smaller elf. She easily side stepped his lunge, but not the reach of his arms. Wrapping them fully around her slender form, Alistair brought her down, onto her back, into the snow, complete oblivious of the two mages who watched with quiet amusement as he rolled to cover her body with his, tickling at her all the while.

Giggling, breathless, Adela exhaled sharply to blow the strand of hair from her eyes. Gazing up into Alistair’s soft amber gaze, she giggled. “Dignity, huh?”

Chuckling, he bent his face down to kiss her gently on the lips. “Yup. That’s us. We are the Fereldan Grey Wardens. Dignity is our motto.”

“And darkspawn fear us for it, right?” she asked as she raised a hand to brush the hair and snow from her love’s eyes. Alistair’s grin widened and he dove in for another kiss.

“Ahem,” they heard Zevran’s smooth accented voice from above. “You know, my two dear wardens, had I realized that there was to be a party, I would have never taken point.”

Blushing slightly, the two young people pushed themselves up, Alistair lending a hand down to Adela and hoisted her to her feet. As they brushed the snow from each other, Adela said, “Well, perhaps we should just…get down off the mountainside.”

“Excellent idea,” Zevran purred, brushing snow from the female elf’s shoulder, smirking over at Alistair.

DA:O

The silverite armored knight brushed his auburn hair back from his brown eyes, staring obediently at his liege lord. Arl Eamon was disappointed, to say the least, at the knights’ inability to locate the wayward Lady Cousland. They, along with several of Mayor Murdock’s men, scouted the surrounding area thoroughly, but it seemed as though the young woman had simply vanished into thin air. A cloud crossed the arl’s ragged features, but he graciously thanked the men for their efforts before dismissing them.

Ser Perth paused for a moment and then followed his men from the great hall of Castle Redcliffe. One of his men, Ser Thomason, was waiting for him just outside the double doors that led from the great chamber.

He was nervous, something Ser Perth had never thought he would see on the overly confident blonde’s face. But, he was, and that only made Ser Perth’s own anxiety more pronounced.

“Out with it, Ian,” Ser Perth commanded as the man joined him by his side, matching stride for stride as they exited the castle.

“I am uncertain how to broach the subject, Dorian,” the knight said with familiarity to his superior. Off duty, Ser Perth was not one to enforce protocol.

“How about with words, Ian,” Perth admonished, trying to chuckle but it only came out as a cough.

Ser Thomason nodded his head knowingly, “So, you feel it, too.”

Perth continued on his way to the barracks, glancing sidelong to his lifelong friend. Finally, “Yes,” he admitted. “Our Arl has not been…himself since awakening.”

“Do you think those mages had anything to do with it?” came Thomason’s question, but, after a moment’s thought, Perth shook his head.

“Nay. They fought alongside us to banish the evil brought about by the demon that inhabited young Connor. I doubt very much they have anything to do with our Arl’s odd behavior.”

Thomason snorted, not quite agreeing, but not disagreeing either. “If not the mages, then what?”

Here Dorian Perth paused, gazing out over the lake that had been the site of his home since childhood. He had been in the Arl’s service as a squire since he was a lad of merely eleven summers. During his twenty year tenure the Arl had been a gracious master, if sometimes foolhardy and overly indulgent when it came to his Orlesian born wife and his own duties regarding the boy Alistair had been. Turning to Thomason, he could only shrug his shoulders. “In order to find the answer to that,” he said as he resumed his walk. “I would need be a far wiser man than I am.”

Ian Thomason looked at his friend’s back, and then, with a sigh, jogged to catch up. He had no answers either.

DA:O


The fire blazed in the fireplace, and food had been laid out upon the room’s sole table. Confusion marred Nelaros’ handsome face as he stepped fully into the room that resembled Loghain’s at the palace.

“So, you actually eat while in the Fade?” the elf asked as he neared the table, his sword and shield hanging at his sides.

Loghain shrugged as he settled his weapon and shield down next to a chair, and then seated himself, taking some of the food. “It seems that when there is food provided here, that my…real body is gaining sustenance in some fashion.” He looked up at the elf. “I would suggest you partake of this as well, elf. I am hazarding a guess that if you can interact with it easily, it was provided for you as well.”

Frowning, the elven man took a seat, setting his shield and sword against his leg and then reached for the food.

As Loghain suggested, he was able to gather food to a plate and eat what appeared to be turkey, potatoes, bread and cheese. Water and wine were provided in carafes and the elf gratefully poured himself a full cup of water.

They ate in silence for a while, each concentrating upon the food before him. Despite it being unreal, Nelaros found that the meal left him satisfied. He looked up to see Loghain watching him.

Tearing the piece of bread he held in two, the elf prompted, “Yes?”

“As it appears we shall be each other’s company for some time,” the Teyrn remarked, picking up a goblet filled with water. “I thought perhaps we could talk.”

Nelaros chuckled slightly. “From all I hear of you, Your Grace, you are not one for idle banter.”

Answering the elf’s chuckle with a low one of his own, Loghain nodded. “True enough. However, after having spent far too much time alone,” he waved an arm to indicate not only his room, but the Fade itself. “I find myself relishing the idea of talking with someone new.”

Chewing thoughtfully, the elf nodded. Swallowing, he replied, “Yes, I can see how even the most…recluse of people could get tired of only this,” he nodded his chin at a wall, “and demons as company.” He put the rest of his bread down, folding his arms before him. “So, what would you like to ask or discuss?”

His pale blue eyes fixed to the elf’s darker, more gemlike blues, he shrugged. “Anything, truly. How you came to travel to Denerim instead of your betrothed going to Highever; your family; the girl’s family; news of Highever.” He chuckled in a self deprecating fashion. “Truly anything of interest would be welcome.”

Laughing, the elf nodded. “Well, my family is well respected in the Highever alienage,” the younger man began. “We are craftsmen at the best of times, carpenters and blacksmiths when money is sorely needed and there is not much demand for the more delicate crafts.” he smiled. “Actually, my family and my betrothed’s had a great deal in common. As far as my going to Denerim, it seemed only fair. The last exchange had the Denerim elf traveling to Highever. The elders agreed that it a far exchange for me to go to Denerim instead of her coming to Highever.”

Loghain nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve not much news, I fear, since events at Ostagar. I do know, however, that the Cousland family was attacked by Arl Howe.” He saw the concern cross Nelaros’ face. “I am sorry. I do not know how the surrounding area of Highever fares. All I know is that the Couslands were all killed.”

Nelaros kept silent for some time, his head bowed. “It is a shame,” he whispered, raising his blond head. “The Couslands were perhaps the only noble family in all of Fereldan that treated everyone - human and elf - as equals.” He ignored the scowl that formed on Loghain’s face. “That they are no longer…it does not sit well with me, and I am certain, many others throughout the country.”

Loghain remained quiet, thoughtful, and then spoke up. “They were a family loyal to kith and kin, duty always first, country and king always to be supported. I had the honor of fighting beside Bryce and Eleanor during the rebellion, but it was when the nobles called for Bryce to assume the throne upon Maric’s death, and his thoughtful refusal, that my respect for him and his family increased.” The commoner turned noble frowned. “They were perhaps one of the few noble families that had accepted me as being on equal footing, all things considered.”

“It would seem that Howe has much to answer to,” the elf replied, his eyes thoughtful. “If he is aligned with the blood mage that has captured you…” He let the thought drift off, uncertain how to proceed, uncertain, completely, of the true ramifications of Howe’s actions. After all, as an elf from an alienage, he had not much knowledge regarding politics and nobles. For all he knew, Howe’s actions may well meet with approval from the other nobles.

“Ah, well,” the elf stammered slightly, smirking at the human. “Let us see, my betrothed. As I said, my family and hers had a great deal in common.”

“Oh, is that so?” Loghain asked as he spooned some potatoes into his mouth before taking a sip of water.

Nelaros nodded, smiling fondly. “Indeed. Although her family is a great deal more acknowledged as some of the finest artisans in all of Fereldan.”

Loghain stopped chewing, his eyes fixed upon the young elf’s face. “Artisans, you say.”

“Indeed. Her father, Cyrion Tabris, is known far and wide as perhaps the finest sculptor - human or elf - in all of Fereldan. His daughter, Adela, had apprenticed under him, but I have never seen any of her works.”

Loghain had gone quiet, and Nelaros frowned slightly, searching the older man’s face. A dawning realization came over him, and he asked, “Do you know the Tabris family?”

His eyes refocused upon the younger man. So this had been the man Adela had been betrothed to? He studied the elf’s features, truly taking in their look at this time. He looked past the beauty that so many elves possessed and truly looked at the man. He saw strength, determination, great will and a strong sense of what was right. His eyes were sharp, watchful, and he knew from battling at this man’s side that he would risk anything to protect those around him. The man’s own tale of how he had come into Arawn’s possession spoke volumes.

This would have been a man he would have chosen for Adela, if he had to choose anyone other than himself. Realizing the young man was awaiting an answer, Loghain slowly nodded. “I do, indeed, know the Tabris family.” He smirked slightly. “How much of their history do you know?”

Nelaros frowned slightly, shaking his head. “Only that they are a family of artists of great renown,” he admitted, feeling a little sheepish that he had, in fact, known very little of the family he had been set to marry into.

“Ah,” Loghain muttered, then raised his voice slightly. “So, you do not know anything about her mother?”

“Only that she died when Adela was very young.”

Nodding, Loghain then asked, “Adaia Tabris, formerly Adaia Mahariel, fought by my side during the rebellion.” He smirked at the widening of the other man’s eyes.

“She was a Night Elf?” he asked, reverence in his voice.

Loghain scoffed. “Hardly. She was a Dalish Hunter, second in her clan. She and her hunters had saved Maric’s life at West Hills.” His smirk widened to a grin as the elf’s obvious respect for his affianced mother grew. “From there, she and those hunters she commanded fought at our side, helping to defeat our Orlesian conquerors.”

“Why, then, no mention of her?” Nelaros asked, confused by the omission. After all, the Night Elves had been mentioned.

Loghain shrugged. “Bad enough historians had to admit to the existence of the Night Elves,” the Teyrn speculated. “I think they felt justified including the Night Elves because they were a regiment I had recruited.”

“But to mention Dalish elves fought by the king’s side…”

Loghain shrugged. “Who knows? Maric and Rowan were furious when they had received the ‘official’ accounting of the rebellion. So, we wrote one of our own.” Loghain frowned, snorting. “I understand few have read it.”

“From the hands of the king and heroes who saved Fereldan, and no one wants to read it because of the truth of the words?” Nelaros asked, scowling. “Typical.”

“Far easier for humans to believe elves inferior in all matters,” the human said, eyeing his companion. “Those of us who have fought beside elves know well the ferocity of their skill, especially with bow and arrow.”

“I think perhaps my family made out far better with this match then the Tabris family did,” Nelaros muttered, frowning. “Artists of renown and now I learn Adela is descended from a hero of the rebellion. I knew she was special.”

“Ha!” Loghain scoffed, frowning at the young man. “You claim she is special because of her family, yet you do not really know the value of the woman herself.”

A perfect brow rose at Loghain’s words. “I take it you knew my betrothed quite well.” There was a tone in the elf’s voice Loghain did not like, nor could he truly repudiate.

Frowning, Loghain replied, “Not as well as you are insinuating, boy.” Or as well as I would like.

“But you would have liked to,” he shot back, echoing the other man‘s thoughts.

Loghain leaned back in his chair, staring at the elf for a moment. “Perhaps.” He watched as Nelaros’ frown turned into a deep scowl. “However, that is neither here nor there. Would you like to know what happened to Adela after her escape from the manor?”

The elf perked at that, and quickly nodded his head. “Apparently, she had killed the Arl’s son, and managed to get everyone else out of the manor.” Loghain frowned. “I do not know what happened, because I did not know she had been kidnapped and assaulted. When I saw her at Ostagar, she had not mentioned any of this to me.”

“Ostagar?”

The Teyrn nodded. “She had been conscripted into the Grey Wardens,” his smirk returned as the elf’s eyes widened. “From what I have gathered, she and another warden managed to escape the debacle at Ostagar, and are now the only grey wardens in all of Fereldan.”

“Is it a Blight?” the elf asked, his hands clenching before him.

“I believe it is,” Loghain answered. “Adela is the one I told you of that can traverse the Fade. She and I met several times, but I had always believed her either a dream or a demon playing on my…desires. From what I managed to piece together from our talks and from what little Howe and Arawn would reveal, they are gathering allies to fight against the Blight. And, ironically, me.”

“You?” Nelaros shook his head. “How is that possible? You are a prisoner.”

“To a blood mage,” Loghain reminded the other man. “Arawn has been using me as a blood puppet. Apparently, I am the one ordering assassins to kill the last of the wardens. I am the one who has the Bannorn riled up. Apparently, I am the Regent.”

The elf let out a low, long whistle. “That…could prove distracting when you try and convince everyone you weren’t in control.”

Loghain nodded. “I believe I have Adela convinced that I am not in control of my faculties.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, pushing his plate of half-eaten food away. “I only hope she did believe me and that she yet lives.”

Nelaros turned away from the human, his eyes dark with thought. Nodding his head, he responded, “I hope so as well, Your Grace.”

DA:O

Wind brushed the wisps of red hair back from the strong features of the young knight-turned-warden recruit as he stood upon the battlements of Castle Redcliffe. Elissa Cousland had disappeared over a week prior, and no sign of the adventurous noblewoman had been turned up.

Roland was not, however, concerned over the fate of the young woman. She had carefully packed all of her belongings, leaving nothing behind. And while the Arl thought that strange, Roland knew, from previous experience with the young woman, that it was all too true to her nature.

What worried Roland was the Arl’s behavior since her disappearance.

True, the nobleman had once again began to keep company with his wife. The Arlessa was making great strides in her recovery, both physically and emotional. She continued to grieve for her son, yet she seemed determined to make things right. She had, during one of their many talks, confided in Wynne that she was responsible for the misfortune to settle over Redcliffe and she was determined to make things are right as she possibly could. To that end, she had taken several personal items - jewelry and other items she had come into the marriage with - and arranged for Leliana to get the best price she could for each piece. The bard had traveled to Denerim, knowing of a jeweler therein who would be reasonable about pricing as well as prompt in payment.

Upon the bard’s return, the Arlessa had then taken the funds procured and gave more than half to the Chantry to use for those poor folk displaced or otherwise affected by the Undead Plague (as it had been dubbed). The other half she had given directly to the Mayor, advising him to use the funds toward the rebuilding of the village homes. And while Mother Hannah had seemed nonplussed by the Arlessa’s uncharacteristic charity, Murdock made no bones about thanking the woman as well as expressing how the funds would go about toward helping a great many who had lost so much.

Roland smiled slightly. The change over the Arlessa was greatly welcome, and he had seen how happy the woman had been once her husband had started appreciating her company once more. The Arl, however, continued to fret over the disappearance of the young Cousland, despite Roland’s assurances that her disappearance was well in character for her. He shook his head as he recalled his conversation with the Arl just an hour prior.

“How can you be so certain?” Eamon demanded, glaring at the younger man. “Howe could very well have kidnapped her!”

Roland shrugged his broad shoulders. “Would Howe’s men truly have let her pack all of her belongings - including the fine gowns Lady Isolde had given her?” He frowned. “Your Grace, I have known Lady Cousland since we were children; she often disappeared, sometimes for weeks on end. It would drive the Teyrn and Teyrna to distraction whenever she did thus, but she always returned.”

Eamon’s glare softened slightly as he studied the young man. With a heavy sigh, the older man nodded his prematurely gray head. “And where she had no duty to remain here, you truly believe she would have simply up and left without word?” There was a tired resignation in the man’s voice, and Roland fought to keep from narrowing his eyes at the other.

With a nod, he answered, “I do.”

Eamon turned from the former knight, hands clasped behind his back as he turned his gaze toward the great window that overlooked the lake. He had dismissed the other man with a nod, continuing his contemplation of the world outside the castle’s walls.

Now he lifted his face to the wind and closed his eyes. The sooner Adela and the others returned from Haven (and he was determined to remain optimistic that she would return), the sooner they can all leave the Arl’s hospitality.

DA:O

The fire crackled, and Adela leaned forward, her hands held out to the warming flames. Alistair sat next to her, tending to his weapons and shields. Zevran and Niall were cheerfully preparing that evening’s meal, the Antivan promising something more palatable than the grey lamb stew Alistair insisted upon making.

“Trust me, my dear Warden,” Zev had purred as he chopped herbs and tossed them into the pot. “You will appreciate the Antivan cuisine far more than that tasteless gruel your young Warden seems to fond of.”

“Hey!” said young warden exclaimed, scowling over his shoulder at the cheeky assassin. “I’ll have you know that my stew is a popular dish here in Fereldan.”

“Oh, is that so?” the elven male quipped, placing cut up rabbit meat into the pot and giving the ingredients a stir.

“Yeah,” Alistair continued, turning his eyes back to the sword and oil rage. “You take lamb and peas, put them in a pot with some water, and then cook it until it comes out a uniform gray color.” He smacked his lips. “Hmmm…”

Zevran scoffed as Adela giggled lightly. “Tasteless as well as thick, sloppy and gray?” He shook his blond head. “No thank you, my dear Alistair. Tonight, we shall eat well of food that tastes as good as it looks.”

The young warden merely shrugged his broad shoulders as he reached for his shield. “Yeah, well, your loss.”

Smiling, Adela reached over and placating patted Alistair’s arm as Zevran picked up the pot and placed it over the fire. The young man, without looking up, returned her smile with his own.

During this, Morrigan had settled near Adela, her strange yellow eyes fixed upon the leaping flames in the fire pit. As Adela turned her own attention back to the fire’s warmth, she glanced at the witch. Morrigan, noticing her look, turned fully to the young elf.

“Might I a moment of your time?” the human woman asked of the elf. Adela nodded turning fully to face her friend. After a moment’s pause, Morrigan shifted closer to the elf, leaning forward just slightly. “I am wondering if you have taken time to think over my request.”

Adela’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then, recalling the conversation she and Alistair had had between the two of them and then, later, with Morrigan, she nodded.

Morrigan let out a breath, unsure how to proceed. She was, after all, asking for a favor. One that could well endanger the very lives of her companions - her friends - as well as their overall mission. And, while she would completely understand if the elf had decided against such a course of action, that selfish part of her was already raging against it.

Taking a deep breath, the witch asked, “And has a decision been rendered?”

Smiling softly, Adela placed a small, calloused hand upon the soft forearm of the lovely mage. “Morrigan,” the witch raised her eyes to look directly into Adela’s blue eyes. “Alistair and I both agree that it is well worth our time and effort to make certain that you are free of any threat from Flemeth.” Her smile widened slightly as Morrigan’s eyes opened with astonished gratitude. Alistair chuckled from beside the women.

“My thanks,” Morrigan said, almost as a whisper. Then, glancing over at the male warden, she said, “My thanks to you as well, Alistair. It is…most appreciated and somewhat of a surprise that you would both agree to such a course.”

“Why?” Alistair asked, this time raising his eyes from his work.

The witch shrugged gracefully, the feathers upon her shoulder fluttering lightly with the movement. “You and I do not always see eye to eye,” she reminded the ex-templar, who merely snorted at her words. “The Blight must be stopped at all costs, and yet you have both agreed to take on a quest that, frankly, has no affect to your mission in one way or another.”

“There you are wrong,” Adela put in, smiling at the woman. “Forget that we do this out of true friendship and concern for your well being,” she chuckled slightly at the roll of Morrigan’s eyes. “If we need to worry about your mother popping out of the woods at any moment to claim your body as her own, that would really hurt our mission.”

“We rely upon you a great deal,” Alistair put in, still watching the witch as she nervously fidgeted with her hands. “You saved Adela’s life when the high dragon caught her.” Morrigan actually blushed as the emotion so evident in Alistair’s voice.

“And you have proven time and again to our cause,” Niall put in from behind the group, smirking as the others turned to the normally quiet mage.

“You cannot fool us any longer, my beautiful swamp witch,” Zev purred as he stirred the contents of the pot that was now hanging over the fire. “We are on to you and your wily witchy ways.”

Morrigan looked from one friend to another, completing the circuit until her gaze finally rested upon Adela’s open face. “’Tis a strange thing,” the witch said bemusedly, picking up a stick and tossing it into the flames. “To have friends.” She tilted her raven dark head, a true smile upon her face. “’Tis a nice change from the constant solitude found in the Wilds.”

Adela returned the smile, rubbing Morrigan’s arm before moving away. “You will always be my friend, Morrigan.” This was followed by a course of masculine voices conceding the same.

Taking another glance around at her friends - and it did feel very good to acknowledge them as such - she rose and went to where her poultice making supplies lay. Adela and Alistair exchanged a grin, and the human went back to cleaning his shield while Adela’s gaze settled, once more, upon the open flames.

DA:O

A week’s travel from Redcliffe Castle. Mordred scowled at the young lady riding next to him. He had never been so pleased to see the gates of Denerim in all of his life as he was now.

The noblewoman had proven difficult and overly demanding, and many of his men had wanted to take the inconvenience she caused them out in trade. Mordred, however, had to report personally to Teyrn Howe and there was no way he was going to explain to the vicious little man that his prize had been compromised by his own men. With sharp tongue and threatened violence, the assassin leader was able to curb his men. But just barely.

With a nod, the mounted group - Elissa in the center, flanked on all sides by Mordred and his men - passed by the city guards and into the city.

About a half hour later, the group stood in the main hall of the Denerim Manor. With an order to his men to take Lady Cousland to Teyrn Howe’s personal chambers, Mordred went off in search of his employer, who was on his way to the main hall. They spoke briefly, and a look of irritation flashed through Howe’s eyes. With a nod, he dismissed his man, and hurried to his chambers.

Elissa stood in the center of the room, still flanked by Mordred’s men. With a curt word of dismissal, the two nobles were alone.

Howe’s eyes raked over the proud form of the Lady Cousland, taking in every detail of her form before raising his eyes to settle upon her dark, angry orbs. A roguish smile crossed the man’s craggy features, and he took a step forward, placing himself within feet of his prize.

“You have caused a great deal of stress, my dear,” Howe’s voice flowed, purring, tsking at her as he smiled. “And I understand you caused Mordred and his men quite a bit of…difficulty en route here.”

Lifting her proud chin, the Cousland noble glared at the man. “They are beneath me,” she replied. “They are scoundrels and shall be treated as such.”

Howe shook his head. “Mordred has served me well for many years, my dear.”

“Teyrn, is it?” she asked, slight fatigue and anger in her voice, changing the subject.

“Ah, yes,” he smirked, “The Regent was most generous for my unraveling a plot by the traitorous Highever nobles.” He tilted his head, smirking at the irate look that crossed the young woman’s face. “Plotting with Orlais is considered treason, you know.”

Elissa snorted. “And I suppose you are going to tell me that a seven year old boy was in on the plot?” She took a step forward. “I suppose he was plotting to line the borders with his toy soldiers.”

Howe smiled, raising a hand to gently brush the hair that had fallen at the woman’s shoulders. “The line of succession had to be clear,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping down the length of her shoulder and to her hand.

“Fergus…”

“Is dead,” the Howe remarked, picking up the noblewoman’s hand, which was limp, in his own warm and larger hand. “He was, after all, at the disastrous battle at Ostagar. There was no sign found of his regiment. Save for a few body parts.”

Elissa winced slightly at that. “So that means…”

“That you, my dear,” Howe breathed as he closed the space between the two, enjoying the flush that rose to the young woman’s cheeks. “are the sole surviving blood heir to Highever.”

The young woman took a step back, blinking, staring at the man. A sigh escaped her lips, and she bowed her head. Howe watched her for several moments take in the news before closing the gap between them once more. Pulling her into an embrace, he raised her chin with one hand. He could feel her tremble against him, and tightened his grip around her.

Bending down, he murmured, “I’ve missed you, Elissa,” and then took her lips against his own, pressing a firm, warm kiss upon her. The young woman pushed him away, staring into his eyes. After a moment, she smiled softly, moving forward.

“I’ve missed you as well, my love,” she answered before meeting his kiss with one of her own, passionate and demanding. Chuckling, Howe returned her kiss tenfold as he maneuvered her toward the massive four poster bed that dominated the room.

[SheilaD67]

To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect. ~Oscar Wilde

I love everyone’s reaction to the Elissa/Howe pairing. Ahm…trust me, the thought of the two of them together kinda makes me cringe, but, the plot just got caught up in my little brain and would not let go.

As always, thanks for the alerts, favs, and, most especially, the wonderful reviews! The reviews not only give me a giggle, but inspiration to continue. Thanks go out to: celtic-twinkie (for my favorite in review comment; I laughed when I read your first line!), mutive, Nithu, Biff McLaughlin, tgail73, Shakespira, Eriana10, CCBug, zevgirl

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 40

Nelaros glared into the gloom, blood dripping from his arm, down his forearm, and to his fist. He risked a glance back to Loghain, who sported several wounds himself, but stood resolute and sure at his back. The human’s pale eyes, too, scoured the foggy air, narrowing as he tried to focus his sight. With a sigh, the elf rubbed his hand, wiping away much of the blood to prevent his hand from slipping on his sword.

Loghain noticed the movement and moved forward, a tightly woven handkerchief in hand. “Take this,” he instructed, handing the item over. Moving his sword to his shield hand, the elf took the cloth gratefully and wiped the blood fully from his hand. He rolled his shoulders slightly, unused to the heavy armor he now wore. Loghain stood, comfortable in the heavy plate Nelaros had found for him. The elf quelled a desire to shake his head. For some reason, the human still could not see weapons or armaments, or any other useful items, outside of his chambers.

“Do you see her?” the human asked as he turned his attention back to the gloom.

“No,” the elf admitted, his own blue eyes narrowing into the darkness ahead. “But, I can hear her.”

　
DA:O

In a few days - three at the most - they expected to be at Redcliffe. In the meantime, the pair had decided to walk a ways from the rest of their truncated group, to allow for some time alone before they regrouped with the others and resumed their quest.

They were alone, finally. Alistair reached over and gently took Adela’s small hand in his own, leading her to the water’s edge. Grinning up at the man, the elf laid out the blanket she carried, settling down to stare over the water.

The air had warmed substantially, the winter’s snows almost completely melted away. The ground was almost soft, but still squishy with the snow’s melt. Normally, Alistair would have enjoyed the sudden onslaught of Spring, however, the cause of this season’s early melt had nothing to do with nature.

For above them, the skies whirled in dark grayness, angry clouds and lightening flashes that loomed night and day.

The Blight had come.

Blowing out a strained sigh, the young man settled beside his love, rubbing a hand down her arm before placing his arm about her shoulders. He smiled as she settled against him, her head resting just below his shoulder.

He knew that he should feel guilty, having found happiness and love during the worst of times in Fereldan’s history, however, he could not and would not stifle the feeling that swelled in him.

With that thought, he bent his head down, taking Adela’s soft lips with his own. The kiss started as searching at first, just soft lips and movement. Then the elven woman turned her slender body fully into his own, her hands rising up to entwine in his hair, moving down his neck. The kiss deepened, tongues tangling against each as the passion of the pair rose. Alistair pulled his love closer into his body, and she gasped as she felt his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. Alistair released her, and she looked into his eyes, rich amber now darkened to deep brown. She watched as he swallowed thickly.

“Adela,” he started, his voice husky as he brought his lips back to hers.

She gasped as a warm feeling rose in her abdomen, rushing downwards in a fall of heat. She pressed herself more firmly against him, against his arousal, her tongue seeking deeper into his mouth.

Finally, they pulled away from each other, breathing heavy, eyes dilated and dark. Raising a hand, Alistair brushed it against her cheek, watching as her flushed skin deepened, feeling the heat of her flesh against his. “Adela,” he repeated, moving closer, gazing down at her. “I want you,” he murmured, “Maker knows I need you. But, if this is too fast for you…” he broke off as the elven woman in his arms practically leaped up, pressing her mouth, her body into his, rubbing against him in a manner that left no question in his mind that she wanted him as much as he did her.

But, still, he found himself pulling away from her yet again, his eyes searching her face, his breathing ragged, his face flushed and eyes dark.

Adela whined as Alistair stopped, lifting her face to his, her chest heaving. His eyes stared into hers intently, noting how dark and luminous her eyes had gotten. “Adela,” he whispered, kissing her on her cheeks, then her mouth. “I don’t want to…to bed you like you were some common trollop.”

Adela’s eyes took on an amused expression, and she smiled coyly up at him, her voice breathless. “Oh, really? I had never really thought of myself as common.”

Grinning at her, hugging her tighter, Alistair breathed in the scent of her hair. “I love you, Adela.” He pulled away so that he could watch her face. “I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. When you handed me that package of crumbly cheese…” his grin widened. “I knew I found the one woman who would completely understand me.”

Her head tilted to the side, a curious expression upon her lovely face, Adela asked, “So, what are you trying to tell me, Alistair.”

He swallowed thickly. “I…well,” now he was nervous. Here they were, enjoying the feeling of each other’s bodies, possibly even considering doing more than simple kissing and petting, and now he was nervous? He cleared his throat, coughing a bit. Adela’s blond brow rose slightly. The look in her eyes was one of profound love, interest and trust. She trusted him to care for her, to not merely use her. She trusted him to follow her orders, question them when he felt necessary, but to always do what she thought was best. In her position as Commander. Other than that, as a woman, she trusted him. He felt slightly light headed at that thought.

“Marry me,” he blurted out past a throat quickly constricting, feeling the heat rise in his face.

She blinked, licking her bottom lip, her face flushing prettily. He repeated the request. “Marry me.”

“Are you certain, Alistair?” she whispered, almost as though she was afraid of the question, as if she hadn‘t quite heard it properly or understood it.

Smiling like an idiot, Alistair nodded his head. “I love you, Adela. I can think of no one else I would rather spend my life with.” He moved away then, setting her up as he slid to one knee beside her. He saw her blush deepen and felt giddy that he was the cause of it. He reached into the pocket at his breast, pulling forth a small pouch. He handed it to her, and repeated his request. “Marry me.”

Almost hesitantly, the elf took the pouch, looking up into Alistair’s warm eyes. A soft smile crossed her lips as she opened the pouch to reveal a lovely little band of gold, upon which was set a small chip of sapphire. She gasped at it, pulling it free of the pouch’s folds.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, turning the band over in her fingers.

Alistair’s warm fingers plucked it from her hands. “I saw this at that little jeweler stand back at Denerim,” he said with a smile, staring at the ring in his hand. “and immediately was reminded of your eyes,” he said as he took her left hand, sliding the ring onto her ring finger. Placing a finger under her chin, he raised her face to his.

“You have carried this ring since Denerim?” Adela asked, breathless, her eyes still upon the pretty ring her love held.

Alistair chuckled, nodding his red-gold head. Taking a breath, clearing his throat, he said. “Adela Tabris,” he smiled at her astonished and gentle expression, “I know that we have not known each other for long, a mere few months. But, I know how I feel about you; I know how I will feel about you ten, twenty, thirty years from now.“ He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against the back of it. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She glanced at the ring now adorning her finger, and then looked back up into the face of the man she loved. It was true: they had only known each other a few scant months. And it had only been recently that she realized how strongly she felt for this wonderfully silly man. But, in the grand scheme, when she considered how little time either of them had before them, considered how much they had accomplished in those few short months, those months could seem an entire lifetime. She bit her lower lip, a beauteous smile crossed her lips, and she nodded. “Yes.”

A groan of happiness escaped his lips as he clasped her against his chest, kissing her hair as he laughed with happiness. Adela giggled against the muscles of his chest, and he pulled her back to cover her mouth with his.

DA:O

The demon undulated before them, her hands roaming her body. She purred at Nelaros. “Come now,” she cooed, “I can make your final moments pleasurable.” She sidled closer, paying the naked blade in his hand little attention. “I can even give you the moments with her that you had so rightfully deserved.”

The elf’s blue eyes narrowed with hatred. “Do not think to sully her as such!” he snarled, raising the blade threateningly. He took note of Loghain’s shifting movements behind him.

“Tsk, tsk,” she scolded playfully, her red eyes sweeping over to Loghain, who glared at her with undisguised hatred. A cruel smile crossed her inhuman face as she floated closer to the human.

“It is so very interesting,” she remarked, almost as an aside. “How differently the same woman can be seen by others.” She grinned over at Nelaros. “You see her as bright and sunny, warm and everything you could imagine in a life’s mate. A partner.” That grin curved down into a frown, mocking, as she shook her flaming head at the elf. “Such a pedestrian view. But you,” she turned to Loghain, her scolding tones softening. That mocking frown changed. A conniving smirk rose to her lips, and her eyes narrowed. “You see her as…” the smirk widened to a smile that took half her face with it. “Interesting, human. You see her as…”

“Enough!” Loghain shouted, his own blade and shield raised. “We shall hear no more of your tricks and lies, demon!”

Nelaros imitated the human’s moves, anger and annoyance at Loghain raising in his chest. He wanted to know how the human lord saw his intended, but he had no desire to ask it of either him or the demon.

DA:O

“So, I see that Lady Cousland has returned to the fold,” Arawn remarked as he scanned over the paperwork scattered across his desk. Technically, it was Loghain’s desk, but as the Teyrn was currently…indisposed, the maleficar had decided he would look after the man’s work.

sniggering, Rendon Howe, looking thoroughly sated and as relaxed as the mage had ever seen his co-conspirator, settled into a large chair across from the ornate desk. “Indeed she has,” he crooned, a smirk upon his craggy features. Arawn merely rolled his eyes and continued with his work.

The pair of men sat in silence for about an hour, Howe content to scan over some of the paperwork the mage had passed his way, Arawn signing Loghain’s name to some orders regarding the Bannorn and troops.

Now the mage paused as his eyes scanned a document, its broken seal that of the Tevinter Magister. He consciously fought against the scowl that threatened to cross his face, managing to maintain an impassive appearance. The missive was simple: the mages were requesting more access to the Alienage. A sigh did escape his lips, and he glanced over, noticing Howe was still intent upon one missive from Bann Coerlic.

Settling back slightly, the mage watched the other man for a moment. As a blood mage, many would assume he the mastermind behind the Tevinter incursion into the Alienage. However, after his…tenure at the Circle Tower, he found slavery to be rather distasteful, and he doubted he would have considered the possibilities behind such a plan. There were many things the maleficar had no second thoughts in doing, however slavery was one of those issues he avoided.

It was Howe who had come devised the plan, inviting the Tevinters in to help raise funds for the armies. It was a brilliant plan, playing off well to the unrest of the Alienage since before Ostagar. The elves who had killed most of the guard in the manor had, unknowingly, assisted in his own plans for the throne.

That one of those same elves was now being used to help contain Loghain in his Fade prison made the plan even more delicious.

Smirking, the mage went back to his work, ordering more troops into the Bannorn to put down more uprisings.

DA:O

Roland ran his hands through his newly cut red hair. Since his captivity at Highever Castle, his hair had been longer than it had ever been. At first, he had been reluctant to cut it, as a tribute to those who had perished at the hands of Howe and his men. However, he felt the need for some normalcy, and so had one of the Arlessa’s maids cut it back from the long braid he had taken to wearing it in to just below his chin.

Normalcy. He grimaced at the thought as he turned his attention to the battlements of Redcliffe Castle. What an odd term during the Blight. His eyes wandered upwards, staring at the gray and black clouds, the Blight darkened sky. It was only noon, and the sky was darkened enough in reminisce of twilight. He frowned.

His time, along with the other companions, had been spent in meditation, practice and rest. However, the winter months had made him and the others more restless than restful. Even Artemis, a mage more used to time spent in the unchanging environment that was the Tower found himself growing more resentful of the wasted time.

The elven mage now walked up to the former knight, his long fingered hands gripping the stone of the battlements low wall. He stared with wide eyes at the Blighted skies, and then turned fully the human man.

“I want to join the Grey Wardens,” he blurted out, none of his usual lightheartedness in his manner. He stood straight, serious, no hint of his perpetual smirk upon his fine features.

Blinking, Roland turned to the other man. “Are you certain?” he found himself asking, frowning slightly at the question. The elf nodded, turning his attention back to the skies.

“You need every Warden you can get,” the elf said, his soft voice firm. Roland was surprised by the change in the elf’s demeanor. During the months they had spent together, Roland had found the younger man to be flirty, mischievous, and totally devoid of any serious quality. The former knight had even gotten used to the elf’s flirtatious nature toward him, actually laughing of many of the innuendo the elf purred in his direction. This change in his behavior told the young man just how sincere the elf was in joining the ranks of the Wardens.

So, he found himself nodding, saying, “Once Adela and Alistair return,” and they will, he added to himself, “we shall speak to them about the joining.”

Artemis nodded his fair head, turning back to the battlement wall, his hands clasped before him.

And both pair of eyes watched as the Blight clouds roiled and sparked overhead.

DA:A

The Pride Demon stumbled back, a wide gash in her upper arm from where Nelaros’ blade cut deep. She attempted to cast a spell freezing the upstart elf, but had to duck away, twisting, from Loghain’s blade and shield. Snarling, she up righted, raising her hands, a blast of icy cold enveloping the elven warrior. The chill permeated Nelaros to his core, and he could feel his life draining away. He could only watch as Loghain’s shield bashed into the back of the female demon, knocking her to the ground with a shout.

Warmth returned to his extremities, and Nelaros flexed his fingers around the hilt of his borrowed longsword. The demon had regained her feet far quicker than either man would have liked, and she now stood, snarling at the pair. Unsteady on his feet, the elven warrior swayed slightly, grimacing at the pinpricks danced along his feet and shins. His fingers tingled unpleasantly, but he raised his sword and shield, determination filling his heart to destroy this abomination.

Loghain had the same idea, and he let out a great war cry, “For Fereldan!” and launched himself at the evil entity that tormented them.

Sword slashed out, and the demon tilted her upper body away, barely avoiding serious damage. With a hiss, she rose, her feet several inches from the ground as she waved her arms to let loose a spell. An icy fog settled over Loghain, but he managed to shrug it off and carry through with his strike. His sword flashed, dripping blood as it dug a furrow across the demon’s near naked chest. The silvery shield was bashed forward, striking her fully in the face. Bone and cartilage crunched as her nose broke and bent, and with a shriek, she stumbled away from the awful human and his blood weapon.

The elf, smaller and more nimble than the human, danced behind the demon, his own sword swiping outwards, cutting a gash across her shoulder blades. Black ichor oozed from the wounds, and she lurched forward, falling to the ground before the elf’s shield could increase the damage done.

With a screech of rage, the demon rose to her feet, and, with a dramatic wave of her hands, vanished from sight.

Breathing hard, gasping for air, both men stared at the empty space, confusion alight in their eyes. After taking a deep, steadying breath, Nelaros turned to face Loghain. The human stared at the space for a moment longer before returning the elf’s look.

Apparently, the demon had not been ready to admit defeat. With a shrug, Loghain led the elf back to his chambers, hoping for some time for them both to recuperate from their battle.

[SheilaD67]

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Sorry for the slow updating; the holidays took quite a bit of my time.

Thank you all so very much for how well this story is being received! Arsinoe de Blassenville, CCBug, tgail73, Shakespira, celtic-twinkie, Biff McLaughlin

I cannot believe that this story has reached over 200 reviews! Woot!

CCBug & Isabella Monroe had a neat idea that I want to continue with my story. When
their stories reached 100 reviews, the reviewer of that review was mentioned in the story. Now, Isabella (A Girl in King Alistair’s Court) made me (yup! Me!) a regular (and a romance for Anders…*swoon*). Since I had already past 100 by that point, I figured I’d do it at 200. So…thank you tgail73 for submitting the 200th review for this story.

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 41

The young elven maid scanned the hallway, the tray in her hands heavy. She tilted her pretty red head, certain she had heard voices at the further end of the hall. Frowning, she turned back to the Arlessa’s door, and gently knocked upon the hard wood of the door.

The soft voice of Lady Isolde allowed her entry, and Gail placed a delicate hand upon the handle, turning it slightly. She paused again, certain this time that her sharp elven hearing had, indeed, heard voices. They were getting louder. She realized then that the voices were not from the end of the hall, but rather echoing from the lower level. Concerned, she pushed into her lady’s room, placing the tea tray upon the side table at the Arlessa’s elbow.

“Are those voices I hear?” Lady Isolde asked as she turned fully to look at Gail. The young elf nodded her head, brushing a stray lock of red hair from her green eyes. Frowning slightly, the Arlessa rose to her feet, indicating that Gail should follow her as she swept from her chambers, seeking out the source of the voices. With a quick glance to the tray, the young elven maid hurried after her mistress.

DA:O

“What did she mean, about how you saw Adela?” Nelaros asked around a piece of the hard bread he was chewing. His eyes intense as he watched the human lift his head to face him.

A black brow rose, lips a hard line beneath his prominent nose. “She was trying to divide us, Nelaros,” Loghain explained, frowning at the younger man.

“We are already divided, human,” Nelaros scoffed, tossing the uneaten half of the bread upon his plate. “Race and circumstance divide us. And you are evading my question.”

With a sigh, Loghain looked at the other man. “Do you truly think that this is the time to discuss this?”

The elf shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why not?” he asked, scowling. “We’ll never see the light of day. That blood mage of yours plans for one or both of us to die here.”

“Only for one of us,” Loghain reminded the elf. Nelaros’ features only darkened more at the words.

“Yes, I am to die for you,” he spat, scowling down at the plate. “So why not let me die knowing how you see my intended?”

The Teyrn shook his head, his eyes fixed upon the irate features of the elven man beside him. “I knew her mother,” he said quietly, his gaze shifting to the locked door of the Fade chamber that so resembled his back at the palace. “She was, perhaps, one of my closest friends, in many ways closer to me than even Maric. She was a remarkable warrior, someone I knew I could always trust. Unfortunately for her, she had learned the hard way that although she was completely trustworthy, those who held her trust were not always so.”

“Adela…” the elf prompted, not truly interested in the human’s history with Adaia.

“You wish to know how I see Adela?” Loghain snorted. “You need to know how I saw her mother.” the man paused, his head bent, as he got lost within his thoughts, his memories.

Nelaros watched the human, and sudden understanding came to him. The anger he felt bled from him as he realized the truth. He didn’t say a word of his suspicions, and watched as Loghain sat quietly for several moments. “Never mind,” the elf stated, his face blank. “I do not need to know at this moment how you see her. However,” the elf pointed a long finger at the other man. “If we do manage to escape from this prison, you and I will need to have a long discussion about Adela.”

Pale blue eyes blinked, and Loghain’s dark head rose, his gaze scrutinizing the perceptive young man. They sat there, staring at the other for some time. Then, with a nod, without another word, the pair went back to their meal, ears alert for any sound from the demon that pursued them.

DA:O

Adela had never been so glad to see a place as she was Castle Redcliffe. As their small group entered the outskirts of the fishing village, they had been inundated by villagers - those who had been present when they had liberated it from the walking undead, but many that the elf did not recognize. The villagers, however, recognized the woman they had declared their savior, and shouted the Maker’s Blessings upon her. She had noticed that the Revered Mother of the Chantry came out to smile upon them and offer blessings as they walked by.

Feeling a little bemused, Adela glanced up at Alistair. She noticed that his eyes had settled upon the figure of the Revered Mother and raised a brow at that. She knew what he was thinking, and found herself smiling broadly up at him, stepping closer to nudge him with her shoulder.

As her eyes scanned the cobblestones that made the walkway of the bridge, she wondered how her friends were. She found herself missing them greatly: Leliana’s song during the evenings, The Sten’s steady presence, Roland’s friendship…her thoughts paused upon the knight, and her smile turned downwards into a frown. She did not relish the conversation she would need to have with her friend.

The guards at the top of the wide steps drew to attention as the group approached. One of the knights stepped forward, making his way down the long stairs, to meet the companions. He lifted a hand to remove his helm, revealing the auburn head of Ser Perth. With a wide smile, he greeted the companions, bidding them to enter the castle. Almost gratefully, the entire group nodded their agreement and followed the knight into the castle.

Much had changed since they had last walked the halls of Castle Redcliffe. The most noticeable, of course, was the distinct lack of corpses and the smell of death and decay. Floors and walls had been scrubbed to a near shine, and the scent of baking bread and cloves permeated the air, helping to wash away the unpleasantness that had so been a part of the grand ancient manor just mere months prior.

The group past servants, guards and knights alike, almost every one of them paused to pay their respects with a nod or shouted greeting. Adela’s eyes swept over the forms of each of the servants, but found she did not recognize any of them.

Leliana was the first of their missing companions to find them. With a cry and toss of her arms, Adela found herself enveloped in a tight embrace, the Orlesian hugging the smaller woman as she reached a hand out for Alistair, pulling him into their shared embrace. Laughing, the large man allowed himself to be drawn into the hug, blushing slightly when he felt the bard’s soft lips touch lightly upon his cheek in welcome.

Almost abruptly, the pair were released as Leliana assaulted Zevran and Niall with a tight hug. The men returned her embrace, laughing and teasing. Then, the bard’s blue eyes settled upon the quiet form of their Witch. Yellow eyes met blue, and, with a laugh, the bard embraced her beloved Witch, kissing her soundly upon the lips. Blushing and choking, Morrigan returned the embrace, only to remember herself and pull away - slightly - from the warmth of Leliana’s body.

Laughing, shaking their heads, the group turned as the rest of their companions made their way down the stairs.

The Sten greeted them quietly, acknowledging their presence with his usual stoicism: a slight nod of his massive head. Hafter, not one for observing protocol, pushed past Roland’s knees, leaping up upon his mistress, paws on her shoulders as the beast towered over the tiny woman, barking out his displeasure of her having been hurt and of his being sent from her side. Adela hugged the great war hound to her, petting his ears and murmuring promises to never part from his side again. Placated, the animal dropped to all fours, taking his place by her side as the elven woman was swept up into Roland’s arms.

Adela returned Roland’s embrace, for she was, indeed, pleased to see him. She felt him kiss her lightly on the cheek, murmuring how happy he was to see her about. He had pulled her tighter against his chest, and she could feel and hear the quickening of his heartbeat. As their embrace relaxed, Adela stepped back, still maintaining their clinch. Her blue eyes searched his face, taking in the shorter hair, and the relief that so clearly emanated from his green eyes. She reached up a slender hand and brushed it across one of Roland’s cheeks.

“We’ll need to speak later,” she whispered to the knight, smiling up at him. Gazing down into her eyes, he merely nodded as she stepped away to be greeted by Wynne and Artemis.

DA:O

“Do you hear that?” the elf asked as he placed his ear against the hard wood of the door. Loghain straightened, his sword and shield ready as he nodded.

“She’s not even attempting to use stealth,” the General of Fereldan’s armies remarked dryly, his eyes staring at the door as the elf rose to his feet.

“It’s a game to her,” Nelaros remarked. “She knows she can’t lose, so she lets us pull the lead a bit, before she yanks it back to set the hook.”

Smirking, Loghain looked over at the other man. “I take it you fish?”

Nodding, allowing the slightest of smiles to cross his face, the elf replied, “My father and I always took time to go to the coast and fish. It’s a little different fishing the larger waters of the Waking Sea than the little puddles I’m certain you flatlanders like to pretend are real waters.”

Chuckling at the other man’s insolence, Loghain remarked, “I’ll have you know, whenever I went fishing, more often than not it was in the waters of the Amaranthine Ocean.”

“I thought you seldom went back to Gwaren?”

The smirk still firm upon his features, Loghain replied, “I never said I went fishing often.”

Chuckling, the two men turned their attention back to the door. Their mirth was short lived as they heard the unmistakable laughter of the demon that hunted them. Glancing around, they came to the mutual decision that remaining in the small chambers would not benefit them against the magic wielding demon. With a final look at each other, they shifted their positions. Nelaros reached for the door knob, turning it quickly. Loghain leaped into the hall, his eyes shifting from ceiling to floor, seeking out their hunter.

Nelaros stepped behind Loghain, his eyes searching the gloom of the hall directly behind the human. The demons’ chuckle could be heard again, however, neither could discern the direction due to a strange echoing in the corridor.

DA:O

Wynne embraced him in a motherly fashion, and Alistair found that he quite liked it. Since joining the wardens, he had gained a growing sense of what family was. Now, with Wynne he had a mother figure and soon, with Adela, a wife. With plenty of friends around him, he felt that his life could, finally, be full.

At the thought of the lovely elf, he raised his eyes, skimming over their happy, reunited group. He noticed that Leliana had maintained a hold upon Morrigan, one arm around the witch’s slender shoulders, and that Morrigan did not appear put out at all. Zevran and Niall were talking with the pair, and he noticed Leliana’s blue eyes twinkle with mirth. The Sten stood silently in the background, his strange lavender eyes scanning over the group, as always watchful for any danger, their stoic guardian.

Artemis stood nearby Adela, who was enfolded in a tight hug by Roland, Hafter close at her heels. Alistair watched as Roland’s lips brushed across Adela’s smooth cheek, and he had to fight against the rise of jealousy that so easily bloomed in his chest. Closing his eyes, he shook the feeling away, reminding himself that Adela was his, that she loved him, and that soon they would be wed. He opened his eyes to see Adela’s small hand brush briefly across Roland’s cheek as she bent forward slightly to whisper something to him before removing herself from his embrace. Taking a deep breath, Alistair moved from Wynne as Adela approached them, happily embracing the elder mage. Watching as the two women embraced, he hoped that Adela would speak with Roland soon.

DA:O

Despite the chuckle that escaped her full, purple lips, the demon was not amused. Not in the slightest. She had hoped for a worthy prey, one that would not succumb quickly to her might. That had been the deal she had garnered with the maleficar. A prey to amuse her, give her a few hours of pursuit, but who would, eventually, fall to her greater power.

Several days of pursuit, and still the rebellious elf had not realized that his sole purpose was to please her, and then feed her.

The fool stood shoulder to shoulder with the human. And he was not one she was allowed to sink her teeth into. Such a pity, really. Despite his being rather aged, he had a strength and stubbornness about him that could sustain her for many months, had she only been allowed to consume him. As it was, the elf would offer her a substantial meal. One that would last at least as long as the meal the human would provide.

She tired of the cat and mouse game. Actually, she had tired of it days ago. She was hungry, and if she did not move quickly now, she feared her meal would be lost. Lost to one of the more powerful demons that threatened the boundaries of her domain, eager for the feast they knew awaited within her borders.

Why could mortals never learn that, no matter how hard they fought, ultimately they would lose?

DA:O

Gail trailed behind Arlessa Isolde, following her down the staircase and into the main hallway. There, standing amidst more smiles than tears were all of the Grey Wardens and their companions. The elven maid watched as tension eased from Isolde’s features. The noblewoman stepped forward, making her way through the crowd, to stand before the young human Gail remembered was Alistair.

Alistair paused, turning his gaze to the woman who had been the bane of his childhood, and whose child he had the misfortune of having to kill. Gail noticed that the elven Warden tensed slightly at the human’s side, her small hand slipping into the human’s massive paw. The Redcliffe elf frowned slightly at the gesture before remembering her place, her features smoothing out once again into the impassive mask of a servant.

Isolde stood, staring up into the face of the young warden. Her own features were devoid of emotion. What thoughts whirled in her mind none could tell from the passive expression that sat upon her once pretty face. The scaring from her eye had healed greatly, but the eye itself had not been saved. In its place sat a jeweled eye patch. Yet, the rest of the Arlessa’s face was as pretty as it had ever been.

She surprised them all when she offered them a smile, placing an elegant hand upon Alistair’s brawny arm.

“Wardens,” she turned her gaze to Adela, her smile widening. “We are so very pleased that you have all,” her eye shifted to Alistair with significant meaning as she gave his arm a slight squeeze, “returned to us safely.”

Immediately the tension that had threatened the room eased, and everyone once again resumed their well wishes and greetings. Isolde had turned to the elven warden, taking the younger woman’s hand in her own to squeeze it gently.

Gail relaxed, pleased that there would be no scene. Her backbone immediately stiffened, however, upon the entry of Arl Eamon.

DA:O

Nelaros watched as the desire demon circled him and his companion. His gem blue eyes narrowed slightly as she raised a hand. Now! He shouted in his mind at Loghain. As if on cue, the older warrior rushed forward, his sword raised, shield held before him, and his war cry tumbling from his lips.

“For Fereldan!”

The tactic had the desired effect. The demon was more interested in Nelaros, and had paid scant attention to the human. True enough, Loghain had been bent over double, as though he were in pain or exhausted. Simple tactic, but it had worked. The demon was now absorbed in defending herself against a very well rested and undamaged Loghain, who was furious enough to carve bits from her flesh.

Nelaros crept behind the demon, slightly amused that she no longer paid attention to him. After all, wasn’t it he she was supposed to try and kill? A glance over at Loghain’s furious face and sweeping sword assured the young elf that the demon, at least, had self preservation in mind as she defended herself against the man.

The elven warrior swept his blade out, cutting deeply into the hovering demon’s side. She gave out a keening wail, swiping a clawed hand at him. He barely ducked from the main force of the blow, but felt her talons claw bloody trenches across his face. Grimacing at the pain, the elf stepped back, bringing his shield up as the demon turned to give the worrisome elf her full attention.

Loghain, trained and seasoned warrior that he was, took advantage of their foe’s distraction, slamming his shield into her back, pushing her closer to the elf and his sword. Nelaros allowed a small grin to cross his bloody face as he drew his weapon back and then plunged it forward. The blade bit into the soft flesh of the demon’s bare abdomen, and black, acidic blood spurted from the wound, covering the elf’s sword hand. A cry of distress escaped Nelaros’ lips as the blood made contact with his flesh, burning. Coughing slightly, shaking his hand, he refused to relinquish the position he had - a position of power against the demon. She was hurt - badly. He moved to pursue his advantage, but the demon moved quickly. Snarling, she backed away from both men, a long clawed hand clutching at the wound in her stomach.

“Fools!” she hissed, continuing her retreat. “I could have given you an easy death. Now, however…” she glanced behind her slightly and then turned, a malicious grin upon her full lips. “You shall have to deal with my pets.”

As she spoke, four fiery figures emerged from the gloom behind her. She continued her retreat as her ‘pets’ advanced.

With a glance to each other, the two men braced themselves to face off against the fiery might of the rage demons.

DA:O

The merriment that had permeated the great hall quickly subsided as the Arl of Redcliffe stalked into the room. He barely glanced at those companions who had been his guests throughout the winter months. His gray eyes flickered, briefly, across the form of his wife. Those same eyes, hard and cold, settled upon the face of Alistair, barely registering the presence of the elven woman - the Warden Commander - who stood beside the young man.

A smile smeared upon his face, Eamon reached over with a hand, offering it to Alistair. As Alistair took the hand, the Arl spoke his first words, “Alistair, my boy!” he proceeded to clap the other hand to the younger man’s shoulder. “We are so very pleased to see you alive and well!”

Sheepishly, glancing down at Adela, Alistair nodded his head. The gestures felt unnatural to the young warden, and he found himself shifting slightly out of the Arl’s range. “Thank you, My Lord,” the young man said respectfully, bowing his red-blond head slightly. “Trust me, we are all pleased to be alive and well.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Adela stepped forward slightly, “we very much appreciate the hospitality you offered to our companions while we found ourselves separated.”

Those eyes settled upon the diminutive form of the elf. Alistair was certain he noticed a slight narrowing of those eyes, but then the expression turned decidedly friendly, so he thought perhaps he had imagined it.

“Commander,” the Arl bowed his head slightly as a show of respect for her rank. “It is, indeed, my utmost pleasure to host you and your contingency. After all,” he swept his arms out to encompass everyone in the hall, “had it not been for you and your companions, not only would I have died, but all of Redcliffe would have fallen to the undead spawn that invaded.”

Alistair watched as Adela studied the Arl’s face, then offer him a smile. “It was our pleasure, Your Grace.”

“And now that you have all returned to us safely, I find that I have a matter that I must discuss,” he turned to Alistair, “with Alistair here.”

The young man in question frowned, and he glanced over his companions. He noted that Roland was watching them, concern clearly showing in his eyes. The two men’s eyes met, and Roland gave a near imperceptible shake of his head, and Alistair recognized it as a warning. Turning his attention back to the Arl, he said, “I would be more than honored to discuss anything with you, My Lord. However,” he stepped to the side, giving more space to Adela, making her more prominent in the foreground rather than background. “Anything you have to discuss with me should also be discussed with my Commander.”

Now he was certain he saw a flicker of annoyance pass behind the Arl’s eyes. He looked over at Roland again. Yes, the recruit was definitely trying to warn him of something with regards to whatever it was the Arl wanted to discuss with him.

Arl Eamon glanced at the elven woman, and back up at Alistair. With a sigh, he indicated the pair to leave the room and led them to his study.

DA:O

The odor of burning wood, flesh and hair rose, causing the two men to cough, turning their heads away from the smell. The demons, all four of them, moved languidly amongst the bodies of the dead that littered the floor along the passageways of the palace, setting clothing, hair and flesh alike aflame. His hand on Loghain’s arm, Nelaros turned, scanning the area they had just passed through. The human paused, following the elf’s gaze.

The section of the palace they led the demons through was deserted, save for the multitudes of bodies. It was also greatly damaged, with great hunks of the ceiling laying upon the floor, walls torn apart leaving gaping holes to the rooms beyond. Debris and rubble littered the floor, offering many areas for the desperate pair to hide behind.

Of course, Nelaros’ idea was not merely to hide, but to ambush.

After a brief discussion, the two split, taking up positions behind fallen statues of armored heroes and ceiling debris. The demons made no attempt to hide their approach, their gyrating, column-like forms slinking amongst the refuse. Pulling out a crossbow he had acquired from one of the many corpses of soldiers, Nelaros pulled back the crank, setting the bolt in the cradle. Setting the weapon against his shoulder, he sighted in, waiting for the pursuers to enter his field of vision.

Behind his own fortress of rubble, Loghain mimicked the elf’s actions, setting a similar crossbow and set in to wait.

DA:O

Arl Eamon was a gracious host, and so made certain that both wardens were comfortable almost immediately. He offered each a glass of brandy or wine, each of which were declined. As the Arl poured himself a snifter, Bann Teagan entered the room. The two wardens exchanged surprised glances, and the Bann himself seemed a bit bemused by the company.

“Good, Teagan, I’m glad you are here,” the Arl turned to face his brother, giving him a slight nod of his head as his younger brother settled himself in a chair next to Adela. “Now we can plan a strategy against Loghain.”

Adela glanced over at Alistair, who sat, remarkably impassively, staring at the man who had promised his father he would care of him. She could not tell for certain, but she thought she noticed a momentary twitch of Alistair’s lips.

“What strategy, brother?” Teagan asked, confusion in his tone of voice as he rose to pour himself a glass of wine.

“We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne,” Eamon remarked, his eyes settling upon Alistair’s paling features. “Someone with blood ties to the ruling family.”

The Bann almost dropped the carafe of wine as he turned to Eamon. “Surely you cannot mean Alistair?”

“Who else?” Eamon remarked, ignoring the incredulous look Adela cast him. Alistair, meanwhile, sat, dumbfounded, wondering if this was the reason for Roland’s warning glances.

“Fereldan already has a ruler upon the throne,” Adela found her voice and rose to her feet. “If you will recall, Your Grace, upon her marriage to Cailan, Anora was appointed as Queen.” The elf took a slight step forward. “Not Queen-Consort, but Queen. It was part of the marriage contract Loghain and Maric worked up.”

A gray brow twitched. “You seem to know quite a lot about such things, Commander.”

Frowning, she replied, “You mean for an elf,” it was not a question. “Arl Eamon, you are quite aware of my friendship with Cailan and Anora. It was never a secret. And, yes, I do happen to know quite a bit.” More than you know, she thought angrily, still quite upset that Eamon had tried to convince Cailan to set Anora aside. She remained silent on that point, however. It had nothing to do with their current discussion.

Eamon stared down at the smaller woman for several seconds, as though trying to get a sense of her strengths and weaknesses. “Do you really think that people will continue to allow Anora to sit upon the throne? After what her father did at Ostagar?” He finally demanded.

A blond brow twitched slightly. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Adela said in respectful tones. “But, you have been ill since before Ostagar. No one truly knows what happened there.” She prayed Alistair would remain silent at this point. She was pleasantly surprised when he did. “We were at the battle, and still do not know, precisely what happened…”

“There are rumors…” Eamon began but Adela cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.

“There are rumors, indeed. Many pegging the Wardens as having betrayed Cailan and Fereldan to the darkspawn.” her frown deepened and she actually scoffed. “Do you believe those as well? Or only those that would better suit your designs to the throne?”

Teagan bit back a startled cough and Alistair rose to his feet, standing close to Adela. Eamon took in the young man’s stance, how close he stood to the elf. His eyes narrowed. “Alistair has a responsibility…”

“As did you, Your Grace,” Adela cut in again, heedless of station. “Yet while you failed spectacularly at that, Alistair, however, has never faltered in his.”

Silence hung heavy in the air. Adela had not meant for her anger to get the better of her, but she found it difficult to stay her tongue.

“The decision is Alistair’s, young lady,” Eamon replied in a condescending voice.

“That is true,” Alistair spoke up. “It is my decision.” He looked Eamon fully in the face. “I have no desire to become King. I am a Grey Warden. And, as such, cannot hold titles. My responsibilities are to eradicate darkspawn and stop Blights.” The young warden smirked, shrugging his shoulders slightly at the astonished expression that crossed Eamon’s face. “I think that I’m doing a pretty good job of that.”

His face reddening, Eamon snarled out, “It’s because of this elf that you deny your proper rank!”

“Eamon!” Teagan exclaimed, slamming his glass down as he took a step to his brother. “That elf, as you so named her, saved your life. She saved Isolde’s life and the village!”

“But not Connor’s!” Eamon shouted, anger taking firm hold of him as he rounded on his sibling.

Silence reigned, and Teagan shook his head. Adela reached over and gently patted Alistair’s arm, letting him know that she was there for him.

“There were many who perished, Eamon,” Teagan’s voice was lower, softer, conciliatory. “The Wardens did everything they could to save Connor.”

Taking a deep breath, Eamon hung his head. “I apologize,” he murmured. “I know that you and your companions did all you could. I…my grief,” he raised his head to look at the young elven woman. “sometimes gets the better of me.”

Casting Teagan a thankful look, Adela stepped forward. “It is understandable, Your Grace. If there could have been anything we could have done differently, we would have.”

Eamon’s gray eyes settled upon Adela’s blues, searching. Finally, he nodded. “I know. My brother,” he waved a hand in Teagan’s direction. “and knights have all told me of the lengths you and your companions went to save the village, to try and save Connor. It was not your fault.” He bowed his head slightly. “That mage…”

“Brother,” Teagan put in, stepping forward, though apparently still cautious of his brother’s sudden volatile nature. “There are many factors in ‘guilt’ for what happened to the village and here.”

The Arl merely nodded his head. “We still have Loghain to attend to.” He said as he raised his head, his eyes searching the faces of each of the wardens.

“And we will,” Adela assured the man. “However, we have matters regarding ending the Blight to see to.”

“Without any more nonsense about my being king,” Alistair added vehemently, glaring at the Arl.

“Alistair…” Eamon began, but this time it was Alistair who cut him off.

“No, My Lord. There is no discussion. I am not going to be king. I am a Grey Warden.” There was a sudden twinkle in his eye. “And, you are correct. This woman is very dear to me. As a matter of fact, she has agreed to be my wife.” He actually smirked at the annoyed expression that crossed Eamon’s face. Adela was rather surprised by the delight the other warden was taking in baiting the older man. A glance over at Teagan told her that he, at least, was neither surprised nor dismayed by the news.

Eamon opened his mouth to speak again, but Alistair had finally seemed to have enough of it. “That is not up for discussion either, Your Grace.” And, with those words, Alistair clasped Adela’s smaller hand into his own, and led her from the room.

　

[SheilaD67]

Thanks so much for the reviews from the previous chapter! And the oncoming alerts! Yay! Everyone is so concerned about Roland, it’s rather touching. I’m also pleased by everyone’s reaction to the dynamics between Loghain and Nelaros.

So, my thanks for their reviews (Oh! And you really, really should check out their stories, too!): Arsinoe de Blassenville, tgail73, CCBug, mutive, Nithu, Shakespira, Biff McLaughlin, zevgirl, Eriana10

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 42

Adela stood facing the door, her hands twisting in front of her. How long she stood, staring at the offending wood she couldn’t tell. She had left Alistair and the others downstairs in the kitchen, enjoying a rough meal of cold meat and cheese, but had noticed that Roland had not been present. So, with a final glance at Alistair, who nodded encouragingly at her, she left the party and searched out the former knight’s room.

Nervousness and anxiety nearly stifled her breathing, and she paused, taking a deep breath. She had been dreading this conversation, but felt it needed to be done sooner rather than later. She could not bear the thought of her friend continuing to hope for something that could not be.

Bracing herself, she raised a small fist to knock at the door. As her hand neared the wood, the door opened, revealing the red haired man staring down at her with his green eyes as he grasped hold of her descending hand.

DA:O

A click and twang and the bolt shot through the air, pinning into the fluidity of the demon’s undulating body. Nelaros allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction at the scream the fiery demon let out as he set another bolt. That smile widened as Loghain’s own missile dug deeply into the same demon, burying itself into a glowing spot the elf could only guess was an eye.

Taunting voices rose from the other rage demons as their fellow twisted in its agony as Nelaros‘ second bolt slammed into its head.

The first of the demons fell easily to the onslaught of bolts. Groaning, its fiery form merely melted away, dissipating into the floor below it. The trio left slid past the burned spot on the marble floor, their arms twisting, their bodies swaying as they advanced upon the pair.

Abandoning his crossbow, Nelaros, who had been the closest to the demons, rose, his shield held before him, just at his face, his sword raised. Loghain let loose his last bolt, pinning it into the demon closest the elf, and he, too rose, his shield and sword held at the ready as he surveyed their foes.

A dark chuckle rose from the throats of the remaining demons as they raised their burning limbs, readying to strike out at the elf that stood before them.

With a roar, the forefront demon shot towards the elf, the bolt from Loghain’s crossbow sticking out of its chest, dancing crazily with each motion the fiend made. Prepared, Nelaros braced his feet, raising his shield slightly higher, bashing it forward with all of his strength as the demon neared. Stunned, the Fade creature stumbled backwards, shaking its large head, snarling at the elf. It raised its hands as Nelaros in turn raised his blade, swinging it forward in a wide arc. The keen edge of the blade sliced through the demon’s hands, dropping them, wetly, to the ground.

Its keening shriek filled the corridor as acidic blood poured to the floor, burning through the marble. Carefully sidestepping, the blond elf swung out with his blade again, smashing his shield forward at the same time. The sturdy metal and wood of the shield connected solidly with the full front of the demon as the blade jabbed forward and into the creature’s chest. The elf quickly pulled his blade free, mindful of the damage that could be caused should the demon’s blood make contact with his flesh. Giving his shield a shove, he pushed the shrieking demon back, causing it to stumble down and onto its back. The heat from its body scorched Nelaros’ hand and he took a slight step back. Then, with a cry, Nelaros leaped forward, driving his blade to the hilt into the demon’s head, twisting it savagely until the creature ceased its struggles.

DA:O

“Adela?” Roland queried, holding her hand as she stumbled slightly from the momentum of her movement to knock upon the door. His green eyes settled upon her face, noting the tense expression that was fixed thereupon.

“Roland,” Adela greeted, her voice small. “Can we talk?”

With a nod, he stepped aside, releasing the elven woman’s hand as she stepped past him and into his room. With a quick glance down the hall, the man stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He turned to see Adela’s back turned to him. He did notice, however, the twitching of her shoulders and knew that she was wringing her hands before her in a very familiar gesture of nervousness. Although he could not see her face, he was absolutely certain she was mauling her lower lip.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. If he was reading the expressive elf correctly, he knew he was not going to like what she had to say to him. And, based upon their history, it could only mean one of two things.

And he was fairly certain she was not going to deny him admittance into the order of Grey Wardens.

“Adela.”

The elven woman, hearing her name, turned to face the man. He sighed softly as he noted that she was, indeed, savagely worrying her lip. Smiling gently, he stepped forward, brushing a thumb across the bottom of her mouth. Her small, pearly teeth released the flesh of her lip while her hands continued to twist before her. Once again sighing, he clasped both of her hands in his much larger ones, stilling their motions. “I take it you’re not this worked up over telling me you don’t want me to join the wardens?” Roland asked gently.

“Wha-what?” Adela stammered, unprepared for Roland’s choice in topic. Catching herself, she shook her head. “No, no…that’s not it. Not that I’m happy about the prospect…”

A red brow twitched, and the smile softened. “You don’t want me in the Wardens?” he asked carefully, his green eyes intense upon her face.

She sighed, her entire body moving with the gesture. “It‘s not that, Roland,” she said softly, glancing down to where their hands remained joined. “I think that you will make an excellent Warden. It’s just…not something I would choose for those I…I care about.”

“So you care about me?” he prodded gently.

Nodding, she looked back up. “Of course I do. I consider you a good and true friend.”

“But friend only?”

Adela twisted her hands so that now they clasped Roland’s. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, gazing into his eyes. He did not miss the pleading look in those blue depths.

Nodding, taking a deep breath, Roland responded, “I should have guessed he would, indeed, win your heart once I had left you in Haven.”

Brows knotted together, Adela shook her head vigorously. “No, no, Roland.” The grip upon his hands tightened. “Alistair did not pursue me…He had every intention of keeping his promise to you…”

Realizing he had spoken his thoughts, the young man shook his head, smiling down at the distraught elven woman. “Adela, I know Alistair is a man of his word. I merely meant that once I was out of the picture, you would clearly see who held your heart.” He took a deep breath, his eyes closing momentarily. “Alistair is, indeed, the most fortunate of men.”

“I’m sorry,” Adela said again, her grip on his hands tightening.

“Why?” He asked, turning their hands so that he could see her palms. “Alistair is a fine man. If I am to lose the woman I love to anyone, I’d rather it be to a man as good and brave as he.” He smirked into her face. “Of course, I’d rather have…” His voice trailed off, and he left the thought unsaid. I would rather have been the one for you.

They stood there, silent, for many moments, with Roland continuing to hold her hands, rubbing his thumbs along her palms. He could feel the tension ease from her hands, and her stiff arms relaxed. “I want to know that this is definitely what you want,” he broke the silence, his eyes still upon her hands. He could feel her eyes upon him and, with a sigh, he looked into her face.

“It is,” she whispered, her eyes clear, the tension gone from her face. “I love him.”

Nodding, he took a breath. In one graceful movement, the former knight knelt to one knee, her hands still held in his. He heard her quick intake of breath and felt her try to remove her hands from his grasp. It was a gentle tug, and one he choose to ignore at this moment. Lifting his face to look fully into her eyes, he said, “Know this, Adela Tabris, that ever shall I be your humble servant,” he smiled as she shook her head. “I will remain by your side, always, until death or duty takes me elsewhere.” He placed one fist over his heart, bowing his head. “This I swear.”

“Roland, don’t…” she pleaded, pulling on her hands again. “That’s not…”

“It is,” he said as he rose to his feet, his eyes still on her somber face, making her eyes follow his movements. “I want you to take care, Adela. I have no doubt of Alistair’s love for you. However, the Arl has plans…”

“To make Alistair king,” she finished for him, nodding at the surprised look upon Roland’s face. “That was what he had to discuss with Alistair upon our arrival. Alistair, however, was very adamant he not take the throne, and that he was a Grey Warden first and foremost.” Her eyes raised, not really looking at anything. “Alistair would never do anything to hurt me, Roland.” Her gaze found his. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that he would never intentionally harm you. However, be wary of the Arl. I do not trust his motivations.“ The young man felt his own tension ease slightly, but not fully. He still had a concern regarding Adela’s relationship with Alistair, but could not find a voice for it. “I will always be there for you, Adela,” he reiterated, his face calm and set, and he hoped she could hear the sincerity in his voice.

The young elf stared up into the knight’s face for several moments, her eyes searching his face. He had no idea what she was looking for, but she seemed content when a smile graced her lips and she nodded. “Thank you, Roland. For your friendship, most of all.”

“Always,” he said again, seriously. They stood thusly for another moment, and then Roland asked. He took a deep, steadying breath. “So, when is the wedding?” He was trying for levity, something that he didn’t feel, but he did not like the tension he felt between the two of them.

Her eyes widened and a slight blush dusted her cheeks. “How…?”

“Alistair is a gentleman,” Roland replied evenly, maintaining a calm hold upon his emotions. He released Adela’s hands but remained in front of her. “With these uncertain times, never knowing what we may face down the road, it would only be right that he would want to wed you.” A wistful look crossed his face briefly as he admitted. “You deserve no less.”

Her eyes still searching, she replied, “We plan to wed before we leave Redcliffe.”

His heart plummeted like a rock through air, but he forced himself to nod. “Had it been me, I would have done the same.” he had not meant to say the words, but found them tumbling out before he could curb them.

“Roland…” Adela whispered as she placed a small hand upon his arm, squeezing it gently.

“I meant what I said, Adela,” Roland said, bending slightly to kiss her cheek. “I will always be there for you.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Always.”

She nodded, seeming to realize that there was no arguing with the man. “We should join the others downstairs,” she suggested, her hand still upon his arm.

Smiling down at her hand, blinking, he moved to grip it with his other, and moved toward the door. He would not allow his disappointment to hurt his friendship with either Adela or Alistair. He was to be a Grey Warden, and they had a great evil to face down. Mustering himself, he replied as he pulled the door open. “Indeed we should.”

DA:O

Blade dripping black ichor, Loghain advanced upon the wounded demon as it glided backwards, seeking escape from the human warrior. His face set in a grim mask of destruction, the skilled warrior stepped easily over the debris and refuse to get to his prey.

Behind him, the human could hear the sounds of battle as his companion fought off the other demons. Loghain knew he had to make quick work of this foe and get to his comrade’s side. His sword slashed out, followed quickly by a sweep of his shield, the edge of the bulwark slicing across the midsection of the fiery fiend. A thin, fiery appendage lashed outwards, grasping the shield as it made its path before it. Loghain’s momentum came to a jolting halt as the stronger demon yanked on the shield, trying to pull the human off balance. A scowl crossed the Teyrn’s face, and, bracing his feet to prevent his continued momentum forward he released the shield, causing the demon to stumble back from its own assault. With a shout, the human combatant sent his blade sweeping out in a low arc, slicing through the midsection, causing acidic black blood to erupt from the gaping wound. With a snarl, the demon negligently tossed the metal shield to the side as it launched itself at its foe.

Backpedaling, Loghain stepped back and to the side, slightly behind a toppled statue, his blade held perpendicular to his body, much as a shield. He cursed the loss of his shield, but would rather have lost it and still remain standing than find himself in the burning embrace of one of those creatures.

The demon followed the human’s movements, snarling out its outrage and pain, while still offering a taunt in its dark, whispering voice. But Loghain had been taunted by the very vilest that humanity could offer. Orlesian Chevaliers had a knack for making one feel inferior. The taunts offered up by the demons - taunts of pettiness and inferiority - meant little coming from inhuman monsters when having faced those who raped, murdered and pillaged others simply for being born a different nationality, race or class. Loghain briefly wondered if his elven companion felt the same with regards to humans as he did for Orlesians.

The columnar body of the demon rose upwards to its full height, easily overmatching the human in stature. Arm-like appendages stretched out overhead, and the creature brought its upper body up and curved, looming over the smaller human as he stood behind the statue. The wounds across its midsection continued to spout the bloody ichor, dripping to the marble floor, hissing at contact. Loghain looked up, his blade rising as he matched snarl for snarl with his foe. As the demon rushed downwards in a heavy descent, Loghain danced to the side, away from the statue, his blade jabbing upwards, slicing deeply into what he could only assume was its neck. As the blade pushed through the fiery flesh, the creature gurgled out a protest, its arms sweeping down to try and capture the human in its smoldering clinch. Loghain had other ideas, and yanked his embedded blade to the side, slicing through the flesh and bone (he was momentarily amazed that the creature had bones). As the creature moved downward, its own impetus caused the wound to open further, giving the blade its direction. Weakness overtook the creature, and it flopped, twitching and convulsing, to the floor, its head nearly severed from the rest of its body. A roar of agony followed by gurgling sounds told the Teyrn that Nelaros had vanquished one of his opponents. With a push, Loghain launched himself away from the body as it dissolved into the floor, seeking out his shield.

DA:O

Their group stood around the table in the kitchen area, catching up and simply enjoying being with each other once again. Alistair’s eyes continued to wander to the doorway leading out of the pantry, wondering how Adela’s conversation with Roland was going. He knew that she had been dreading speaking with the other man for some time, her heart too soft to want to cause any harm to someone she cared about. That caused a slight jolt of jealousy to course through him, and he physically shook it free, relaxing as he felt its grip upon him loosen and vanish.

Arl Eamon had, of course, not joined in the group’s revelry. The Arl had made himself scarce since his and Alistair’s confrontation in the study upon their arrival. The young warden actually felt pretty good about standing up the Arl. He had not liked the way he had spoken to Adela, calling her an ‘elf’ as though that was the worst thing in the world to be. And then to stand there demanding that Alistair’s duty as Maric’s son required he take the throne? After a lifetime of being told he was nothing? That he had no claim to the Theirin name? And had spent his entire life neglected by said father? The young man shook his head. He had never been happier before he became a Grey Warden. Finding Adela and earning her love had only filled a hole in his heart he had never truly acknowledged was there. Why in all of Thedas would he give that up for something that he had no aspiration for?

He looked up to see Wynne and Isolde in conversation, the young red haired elven maid standing silently beside the Arlessa, her clear green eyes surveying the activity around her, but not joining in. During his brief return to Redcliffe, Alistair had noted the change in the woman who had made his childhood miserable. She had been welcoming, friendly, and, in her glances to him and warm greeting, had let him know that she had forgiven his part in Connor’s death. He watched as the two women talked, their heads together, white head bent near the strawberry blond. He knew, beyond doubt, that the elder mage had a great hand in the Lady Isolde’s change of heart.

His eyes continued their course around the room. Morrigan and Leliana sat together by the table, their own heads bent near, and he watched as Leliana’s hand swept upward, brushing a stray lock of Morrigan’s raven black hair from her eyes. He was slightly amused that the witch did not grimace or scowl at the affectionate gesture, but merely continued with that bemused look that now seemed glued to her features since she and the Orlesian bard had been reunited.

Nearby the women stood Zevran, his arm tossed lazily across Niall’s shoulders, listening to something Artemis was saying. Knowing the elven mage, he was certain it was something outrageous, especially given the flush that crossed the human mage’s face and the wide, lascivious grin that crossed the elven Crow’s.

His eyes settled upon the Sten’s massive form, standing, as always, in the background, watching everything. The sentinel of the group, always making certain that those he traveled with would be safe and secure, even when they themselves were hardly paying attention to their surroundings. Alistair found he had missed the Qunari’s stolid presence.

Actually, he thought as his gaze swept to the doorway, watching as Adela and Roland entered, the knight holding her smaller hand in a loose grip, he found he had missed every one of their companions, and was greatly pleased to be reunited with this group. A group he had come to consider more family than any blood ties could ever have forged. Smiling to himself, he pushed himself from his perch on the table and walked over to the newcomers.

DA:O

Nelaros backed away, stumbling slightly over the debris strewn across the floor. He had managed to dispatch one of the demons with little effort, but he now found himself tiring. He held his sword with tip slightly downward, and he berated himself the stance, forcing the tip up, threatening the pursuing fiend. The amorphous lava-like body flowed around the refuse, barking out its taunts as it slashed out at the retreating elf.

A shadow moved beside him, and he had no need to glance over to know that Loghain now stood shoulder to shoulder with him against their final foe. He heard the older man shout out his great war cry, the one he had been told the man had used during the rebellion against the Orlesians. Always ‘For Fereldan’, regardless the task, regardless the situation. And, apparently, regardless the battle.

Smirking slightly, the elf dug deep within himself, pulling forth from his reservoir of strength and will, and pulled himself straighter. Steadying himself, he braced his feet, watching as Loghain’s blade swept outwards, arcing down and across, sweeping across the demon’s midsection. Positioning himself more to the side of the creature, Nelaros gave a wordless shout, and launched himself at the fiery form on the demon, his blade straight before him, his shield up to protect his face from the heat.

The demon, however, would not be caught unawares. Despite being the weaker and least intelligent of the demon ilk, rage demons were not without instinctive defenses, and were masters of offensive capabilities. Snarling, it raised its spindly arms overhead, and then dramatically dropped them, sending a great fire storm over the two men threatening it, knocking them both from their feet and onto their backs, burning. Laughing, it flowed forward and bent down, its arms outstretched to grasp Nelaros in its fiery grasp.

DA:O

There was that familiar tightening in her stomach as she watched as Alistair disengaged himself from the others and make his way towards her. She could feel Roland tense beside her, and tugged his hand gently. His acceptance of her choice to marry Alistair had somewhat surprised her, and the elf quickly chastised herself her vanity. True, she had expected more of an uproar or disapproval. But, if she truly thought upon it, she realized that it was all in keeping with Roland’s personality. He was a gentleman, and someone who truly cared for her wellbeing and happiness. Regardless of his own feelings, her happiness would mean far more to him, and he would support whatever decision she made. A truer friend she could never have found.

She released Roland’s hand as she turned toward Alistair, noting the smile that was upon his face, and the friendly smirk he tossed at Roland. Beside her, the former knight relaxed as the warden extended a large hand, easily grasping his own in a friendly squeeze. Stepping nearer to the other, Adela heard Roland whisper, “I understand congratulations are in order, my friend.”

A momentary spell of surprise crossed Alistair’s amber eyes, and his smile widened. “Hold on to that thought,” the Second of the Wardens murmured. Confused, Adela stepped nearer Alistair, staring up into his face.

Alistair had turned his attention back to the other companions, pulling Adela around with him, but keeping Roland close as well. He cleared his throat loudly; the others continued with their conversations, laughing and whispering. Grinning down at Adela, he released his hold on her, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He let out a loud, piercing shriek of a whistle. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned toward the male warden.

Again, clearing his throat for dramatic effect, he paused, smiling as everyone’s attention was turned toward him. Adela allowed a small smile to cross her lips, wondering what Alistair was up to.

“I’ve a few things I need to say.” He smiled over his friends, his eyes going from one to another, until they finally rested upon Adela’s lovely face. “We’ve been through much together,” he looked back up. “And still have a long road ahead of us. The months we were separated were, well, rather difficult for us all. I don’t know if I speak for the others, but I’ve come to…well…think of all of you as family.” He grinned at the round of chuckles that swept through the room. Isolde smiled at the young man, her hands clasped before her as he spoke. Alistair turned his gaze once more to Adela. “However, one of you has become very dear to me, and I am the most fortunate of men to know that she feels the same for me.” A slight blush rose to his ears as the others in the room guffawed and ‘oooo’d’ and ‘ahhh’d’ at him. Shaking his head, he continued. “And, it is my pleasure to tell you, our family, that Adela Tabris has agreed to become my wife.”

There was an eruption of well wishes and cheers as his friends congratulated the couple. Adela turned and noticed that there were tears in the Arlessa’s eye, and she resolved to rethink her opinion of the Orlesian woman. However, Alistair was not finished, and he raised his arms, getting their attention once again.

“Because we never know what lies ahead of us, it is our desire to wed before we leave Redcliffe to complete our mission. And we wish for all of you,” he swept his arms out to encompass everyone in the kitchen. “to stand by our side as we take our vows.”

At that announcement, pandemonium struck as the women gathered around Adela, speaking wedding strategy. Isolde immediately promised a dress and called Gail to her side, asking her to got to the chantry and advise Mother Hannah that there would be a wedding within the next day or two, so she had little time to prepare. With a final look at Alistair, Adela allowed herself to be ushered from the room.

DA:O

Burning, fiery agony flooded his body. Groaning, he pushed himself upright, dragging his sword and shield to him as he stubbornly pushed himself to his feet. He staggered slightly, glancing around. The demon had been caught up in the fury of its own storm, dragged away from the prone elf, and while the torrent of fiery rain did no damage to the thing, the force of the storm had pushed it back, stumbling, struggling to maintain its footing. Smirking slightly, Loghain searched the area, seeking out his elven companion.

He heard a groan to his left, and the shuffle of rubble and feet as the elf pushed himself resolutely to his feet. Loghain saw him, dressed in the heavy armor of a palace guard, his sword and shield held low in his hands, as he struggled to regain his senses. He watched as the elf shook his head to clear it, wincing at the pain. Loghain saw that much of the elf’s face had been burned, and patches of hair had been burned from his scalp. Yet, the elf regained his offensive stance, a glower in his eye, as he searched out the remaining demon, obviously intent upon its destruction.

Not for the first time, the human Teyrn questioned the wisdom that did not allow elves to serve in the military. His own experiences with the Night Elves had more than solidified his opinion that in battle few were the equal of an elf defending his home or loved ones.

“Its over there,” he heard Nelaros grumble out, his voice raw and cracked. It was when the elf turned to glance at him that Loghain noticed the point of one ear had been burned away, leaving a blackened scar.

Vaguely wondering if any injuries they sustain in the Fade would carry over to their physical forms, Loghain lurched to the elf’s side. With a glance to each other, the pair rushed into the dissipating storm, swords slashing out, catching the demon off guard.

DA:O

The women spent the rest of the day and early evening sequestered away in Isolde’s chambers, the Arlessa digging through dresses, seeking out the perfect one for Adela, one that could easily be altered to fit the elf’s much slighter figure. After much giggling and teasing, with even Morrigan and Wynne joining in on the fun, the gaggle of women finally decided upon a simple yet elegant cream colored gown that settled just below the elf’s narrow shoulders. Gail, who still remained by the Arlessa’s side, had volunteered to alter the gown. So, the group set Adela upon an ottoman in the room’s center, while Gail pinned the larger garment to the smaller elf’s frame. Satisfied with the fit, the red haired maidservant carefully helped the other elf peel the garment from her, and promised to have it to her the next day. Surprised by her efficiency, Adela thanked Gail as the other woman swept from the room and into one of the nearby chambers, her sewing implements well in hand.

Then, the talk took a turn for the worse, in Adela‘s opinion. Morrigan had confirmed (over enthusiastically) that the betrothal pair had not yet consummated their relationship, and that, of course, brought the conversation from the dress and vows to the wedding night. As with her first wedding, she found herself spending much of the evening blushing and desperately wishing for an escape. However, unlike her cousin’s party, there was no way for her to escape…the doors had strategically been blocked by chairs or cushions, and everyone seemed to take delight in explaining exactly how a man and woman expressed their love. Adela was, admittedly, surprised Morrigan was so well versed. She had presumed the marsh witch had been too isolated for such…encounters. It was Leliana’s own frankness that caused a bought of giggling to make the rounds of the room. Isolde offered advice on par with what Anora had offered: straight laced, with little advices on the excuses to use when she wished to avoid such encounters. The other women in the room booed at that advice, with Wynne explaining that there was nothing quite like the feeling one got after the experience of making love.

After several hours of enduring the good natured teasing of her friends, Adela finally managed to escape to her chambers and her own bed. The next day promised to be as eventful as this one, she just knew it.

DA:O

The pain was nearly unbearable. The heat far surpassed discomfort. Yet, Nelaros saw the only route for his continued survival, straight through the path of the slowly dissipating fire storm, straight to the heart of it where stood, albeit stumbling, struggling to retain its stance, the rage demon that managed to retain some control over the dwindling might of the maelstrom.

Setting his feet solidly with each step forward, Nelaros bent his torso forward, putting as much weight in the step as possible, gaining forward momentum against the strength of the squall. He noticed that Loghain - being larger and heavier than he - managed to make his own progress with less effort, his dark head bent slightly to protect his eyes. The demon in the storm’s center snarled at the pair, lunging forward as it, too, strained against the firestorm. Drops of flame scattered across the metal of his armor, dancing down his arms, dripping from fingertips. Occasional droplets burned into the flesh of his face, and he managed to ignore the pain as he advanced upon the demon.

The adversaries neared each other, the demon’s arms flailing out, leaving fiery paths midair as they swiped at the pair. Nelaros’ sword flashed upwards, knocking one arm back, causing the demon to stumble even more so than it had suffered in the wake of its own firestorm. As the creature stumbled backwards, Loghain took the opportunity to wade through the fire and wind, pushing forward, his sword leading. Nelaros followed in the human’s wake, taking the opportunity to dash ahead once they managed to push the demon from the eye of the storm to the outer edges, where the storm’s fury garnered less strength. With a shout of triumph, the elf leapt forward, slamming the beast in the face with his shield as his sword swept outwards, arcing high, cleaving through the bulbous head. The demon’s scream almost sent both men on their heels, but neither faltered. Loghain’s blade came in low, slicing across and then into the demon’s abdomen. Both pulled their blades back, then rammed forward with their shields, once again bashing into the monstrous creature’s form, slashing out with their sharp blades, seeking to end their foe’s life as they had its companions.

The demon fell easily enough, once the firestorm ended. Nelaros sported several severe burns over his head and hands, some of the storm’s droplets having found their way down his ill fitting armor. Breathing hard, the elf raised a hand to his face, running it briefly over the planes of his features, feeling the lesions upon his flesh, the bare patches upon his head, the damage done his ear. He grimaced as he turned toward Loghain, and noticed that the human had not fared much better than he.

Their eyes met, and an unspoken agreement passed between them.

They needed to hunt out the desire demon and end her existence. Before she set anymore of her ‘pets’ upon them.

DA:O

The next two days were spent in a blur of dresses, wedding plans and general joviality. And while Arl Eamon made himself basically absent such activities, Isolde found herself set upon the boundaries of all the activity, directing, planning…she was in her element and obviously found much enjoyment in it.

Adela’s gaze scanned the room that Mother Hannah had given them at the Chantry, watching as Gail made the finishing touches to her dress before having the elven Warden put it on for the last time. She knew that Alistair was garnering similar attention from their male companions, although she was more than certain there was less flurry of activity wherever he was. Leliana had insisted upon doing up Adela’s hair in an elaborate chignon, twisting and curling stray strands of hair to frame her face. Isolde had taken some cosmetics to redden her lips, add a bit more pink to her cheeks, and a faint blue swath over her eyes. Gail then assisted her with the dress, fussing over the fit, adjusting it here and there, pulling it slightly off her shoulders as she exclaimed over the scars that crossed her fair skin.

Once the preparation was completed, Adela stood before the great mirror, staring at the girl who she did not recognize. She merely shook her head in astonishment while her friends continued to gawk and praise her beauty.

It was finally time for the ceremony, and, unlike her first wedding day, Adela found that the butterflies floating around in her stomach were actually pleasant. A more anticipatory feeling flowed through her, and as she stood just at the Chantry’s large double doors that led into the altar room, she peeked in, watching as Alistair’s attention and eyes went from whomever was speaking to him at that time to the doors she now stood by.

How she wished her father were here! A slight guilty tug awakened in her heart, but she quickly squashed it down. Her father would understand, and would be happy for her regardless of the ceremony. She knew, too, that Alistair’s being human would not affect how her father regarded her husband. She grinned at that thought. No. Her father would only be concerned with whether or not the man she married truly loved her, would protect her, and make her happy. Knowing Alistair, she knew that her father would be most pleased.

Leliana pulled Adela to the doors and, with a gentle tug, led her down to stand beside Alistair.

She barely registered the words that Mother Hannah spoke. Although she was surrounded by the people who had become more important to her than almost any others, only Alistair existed. His own amber eyes gleamed with unshed tears, and he wore that goofy grin that she loved. She felt her lips tug upwards into her own grin, and she blinked, staring over at the revered mother with confusion. A chorus of gentle chuckles rose from the throats of her friends. Alistair bent down to her, whispering what Mother Hannah had asked. Blushing sheepishly, she replied, “I do,” softly, gazing up into Alistair’s face. He answered a similar question with his own, “I do,” his voice trembling with emotion.

Adela did hear the revered mother pronounce the pair husband and wife, advising that Alistair could now kiss his bride. Both were now grinning widely, and Alistair swept his wife into his arms, clinging to her in a passionate kiss. Yips and cheers resounded in the air as their fellows greeted the newly married pair, and the two parted slightly, gazing into each others eyes.

There was an eruption of cheers from outside the Chantry’s walls as the villagers added their voices to those of those within the Chantry.

DA:O

“We need rest,” Loghain growled at his companion, stepping before him to stop his progress through the rubble and debris that surrounded them.

“We need to end this,” Nelaros argued. However, his very voice betrayed him, offering up just how exhausted and injured the elf truly was.

The human scowled at the stubborn elf, his pale blue eyes flicking up and down the corridor. There were no signs of the desire demon. And, as much as Loghain wished to just end this foolery now, he knew that neither he nor Nelaros could endure another drawn out conflict against the demon.

Rest was in order. And rest they shall get. Without another word, Loghain Mac Tir shoved the younger man into a nearby room, barring the entryway.

DA:O

Roland picked his way through the crowd of well wishers and lurkers. He glanced back, watching as Alistair swept Adela - his bride - into his arms, kissing her soundly before the cheering crowd. With a heavy sigh, he turned, trudging up the hill to the tavern.

Bright light greeted him as he pushed the door open, and he blinked briefly at the onslaught. Making his way through the relatively thin crowd (it seemed as though most were at the wedding festivities in the town proper itself), he found an empty table, and sat down. He waited only a mere moment before the pretty tavern wench made her way to him.

“I see you’ve come up from the goings on down in the village,” the young redheaded woman quipped, a smile upon her pretty face. “What can I get you?”

Looking up, Roland took in the girl’s features. She was pretty, as many tavern wenches in smaller towns tended to be. But, nothing truly special. Her blue eyes glimmered with mischief, but he could also see the tired resignation therein as well. Her dark red hair hung loose to her shoulders. She was tall, but very curvaceous, and the young man found himself admiring her form.

Seeing his interest, the young woman smiled. “I remember you. You’re one of the heroes that saved us from the monsters!”

Nodding, Roland replied, “And I believe you are Belle, correct?”

A slight flush graced her cheeks, and she nodded. “I cannot believe someone of your personage would remember someone like me.”

Shrugging, Roland replied, “You seemed to have a lot of fire, despite being scared during that time. It’s hard to forget someone like that.”

Belle glanced back toward the door, a knowing smile crossing her face. Turning back to the man, she asked, “Now, why aren’t you down in the village, celebrating your friends’ nuptials?”

She watched as Roland’s face darkened slightly, and gave a nod. Taking a glance to the barkeep, she settled down into the chair next to the handsome young man. “Seems to me that you have the look of someone who just lost his best friend.” She all but purred this last out, adding a sympathetic cluck of her tongue.

Shaking his head, Roland replied, “No. I still have my best friend. It’s just…” He let the thought trail off as his gaze wandered to the door, but the perceptive and experienced young woman knew very well what he meant.

“Lover, than?” she asked, placing a gentle hand upon his arm.

Green eyes glanced down at the hand upon his arm, and he shook his head again. “Never a lover, but, I had hoped…”

“And now she’s off and married to another man,” she moved closer. So close, Roland could feel the heat from her. “I could help you to forget her, if you’ve the need.”

Now he raised his eyes to look into the young woman’s blues. Belle was pretty, and the sort he would have cavorted with before. But, ‘before’ was prior to Adela, and he found that he had not the heart nor desire to so play about. With a shake of his head, he gently removed her hand from his arm. Belle frowned prettily but removed her hand.

“I’m very sorry, Miss,” Roland said quietly, still maintaining his gaze. “But, honestly, I do not believe that I want to forget.”

Confusion marred the pretty woman’s face, and her lips straightened in a tight line. With a nod, she rose, asking what she could bring him. After a thought, Roland rose, offering the girl a few silver for her time, and left the tavern.

He determined he would enjoy his friends’ joyous occasion, and see what the Maker held in store for him.

　
　

[SheilaD67]

Thanks go out to everyone who continues to read and alert. But, most especially to those who review: Shakespira, Nithu, tgail73, CCBug, Eriana10, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Kira Tamarion (who kindly sent me a PM). And, as always, thanks to Biff McLaughlin. She is like the comber of the forums, easily spotting those itty bitty type-o’s we all miss. Ahem, not that I enjoy pointing out my boo-boos, I had Isolde sporting two eyes rather than one in the previous chapter. *shrugs* Hey! I didn’t forget! I just, ahm, kept typing.

Pure Fluffiness…Very NSFW…Because, really, it needed to be done.

The Halla Reborn
Chapter 43

They had managed to make their way from the revelries, although neither could quite understand how they so managed. It seemed as though everyone in the village was determined to offer them their personal congratulations, along with retelling the tale of their rescue of their village.

However, when there was a lull in the activity, when everyone was either enjoying the dancing around the huge bonfire set up in the village’s center, or partaking of the vintage wine, Alistair saw his chance. Taking hold of his wife’s hand, he pulled her close, whispering loving words, as he slowly and carefully danced her away from the main bulk of the crowd.

Now, they both stood, alone for the first time since becoming husband and wife. Alone in the rooms that had been solely Adela’s, but were now theirs. Alistair had insisted that they not lay with one another, even as they always had - simply as friends - until their wedding night. He had been serious about not simply wanting to bed her. She was too special, too important to him, and he wanted there to be no questions about how he felt for her.

And so now they both stood in their room, quiet, each glancing down at their hands or feet, shyly looking up at each other. He nearly snorted with amusement. Just weeks prior they had been kissing and petting with great lust and need. Now they could barely speak beyond the dryness of their throats.

Adela stood before him, still, gazing up into his eyes. She was nervous, there was no doubt. But he was pleased to note that she was not torturing her lower lip, but watched, her face still, eyes searching. Only her twisting hands gave any outwardly sign that she was nervous.

He was nervous as well. Despite the main reason being his own virginity, he knew that, despite the lack of physical evidence, Adela was as virginal as he. However, it was the knowledge that her first time with a man had been of violence made the young man approach her slowly. Kissing and petting out in the wilds with no plan of going any further was one thing; actually moving forward, the consummation of being husband and wife (Alistair realized how he disliked that term) was entirely different.

He smiled down upon his lovely wife, reaching out to pull her against him. Adela moved to him, pressing her lithe body against his. Alistair could feel the heat from her body as she pressed against him, even through the cloth of the wedding clothes they both still wore. Well, he thought, we’ll have to correct that.

Her hair had come loose from the careful chignon Leliana had tortured herself over during the many dances the young elven woman had been subjected to. Slowly, he pushed the hair to the side as he reached behind her, carefully working the laces of her dress free. He felt Adela raise her face and press her warm lips to his neck. His heart started beating faster, and then he felt her tongue flick out, and he gasped. Grumbling at her, his hands fumbled, and he heard his wife giggle up at him.

“Careful, my love,” he growled at her as he returned his attention to removing her dress. “Or else I’ll just have to rip the dress from your body.”

A startled gasp greeted that remark, and he grinned as she pulled away from him slightly, staring up into his face. Giggling, she brought her attention back to his neck, kissing and licking to his collarbone. “You do that,” she murmured, her breath hot against his skin. “And Isolde would be very put out that you ruined the dress.”

His retort was unintelligible as he strove to work the laces free while his wife continued tormenting him with tongue and lips, her hands roaming up his back, scraping her fingernails as they trailed back downwards. Despite her lack of assistance, he finally managed to get the dress undone, and he pulled his wife back, his hands upon her shoulders. Dark blue eyes raised to his, and he brought his mouth down to her, kissing her passionately as he pushed the dress from her shoulders, past her breasts, and to her hips.

Her breasts bound only with her breast band, Adela pressed her body back against the hardness of her husband‘s strong body. Alistair’s hands were upon her shoulders, then moved down her back, pulling her still closer into his body. The elven woman raised her slender arms, slipped them about his neck, twisted her long fingers into the thick mass of his hair as the man pulled her up into his arms, holding her slender body against his own, his hands running down her back, skimming down the naked flesh of her torso, to the base of her buttocks, eliciting a slight giggle from her. The kiss intensified, and she opened her mouth, slipping her tongue out, sweeping over Alistair’s lips, tasting him. With a tight groan, Alistair swept his wife into his arms and carried her to where their bed stood, gently settling her down onto her back. As their kisses increased in passion, the young man pulled at the dress, pulling it free from her hips, tugging it down her legs. Adela lifted her legs gracefully, her lips never leaving those of her husband’s, as she now lay, clad only in her small clothes, upon the bed.

One large, calloused hand slipped over her breast, cupping it gently as one finger slowly rubbed against the hardening nipple. Adela moaned, her breath coming to her in great gasps as she raised her hips and pressed them against the young man‘s. She could feel the evidence of his arousal though the trousers he wore. Breaking the kiss, she stared up into Alistair’s face, feeling the flesh of her lips tingling, her cheeks flushed with heat.

“You are far too overdressed, my husband,” she murmured, her voice husky with passion.

Chuckling, Alistair resumed kissing his lovely wife, kissing lightly along her lips, her high cheekbones, and down her jaw. His tongue slipped out to taste the naked skin of her neck, and the elf moaned deeper, pressing her body against him again as his fingers resumed their teasing of her breasts, pinching at the already taut pink nipples through the material of her band. Licking and kissing his way down her neck and throat, teeth scraped along her collar bone, his own arousal becoming uncomfortable. Grinning playfully, he pulled the band free, revealing one taut, perky breast. He gazed at his wife for a moment before he took one hardened nipple into his mouth, his tongue lavishing gentle attention around the areola, his lips caressing the soft flesh of her small, rounded breast.

A tight warmth grew in her lower belly, spreading downwards, and she could feel the moisture form between her legs. Growling at her husband, Adela shoved him away as she began her own manic attempts to free him of his own clothing. Grinning at her, Alistair assisted, pulling his tunic over his head. Unable to further restrain himself, he brought his mouth to her breasts once more, teasing them gently with teeth, lips and tongue. She cried out, her back arching, pressing her hips firmer into his own, as his teeth bit down on one sensitive nipple then lightly sucked on it, lathing it with his tongue, before applying the same attention to the other. Almost of its own volition, her body ground itself against the man’s clothed erection, pressing her groin against his with abandon. The growl of appreciation that rose in his throat pleased her as her hands roamed down his body to rub against the hard outline of his arousal.

Impatience fueled her next actions. Adela pushed herself away from her husband, kneeling before him as she explored his torso with hands, lips, teeth and tongue. He groaned under the ministrations, capturing her hands and bringing them to laces of his trousers. As her fingers lightly brushed against his erection, he moaned, lifting his head up to her ear, lightly nipping at the sensitive lobe, licking his way along the graceful shell of her ear to the delicately pointed tip. Her fingers, usually so agile and adept, fumbled with the lacings of his pants as she cried out, arching her body as a new wave of pleasure swept over her, pressing her naked breasts to his well muscled chest. She could feel his heartbeat, strong, fast, unsteady, as it matched her own.

Panting, she pulled away briefly. “I told you, husband,” her voice held a breathless quality. “Elven ears are very sensitive.”

A soft chuckle in her ear as he continued his own ministrations, Alistair responded. “So I have heard.”

Finally undoing the stubborn laces, Adela pulled the trousers past Alistair’s slender hips, pushing them down his thighs, freeing his erect manhood. Alistair then swept her up, and onto her back, struggling to kick his pants off the rest of the way, both of them laughing as he stumbled forward, his chin in Adela‘s breasts as he fought against the hold his trousers held. Adela‘s laughter did nothing to help, and he buried his face in her chest as the pants finally came free. Quickly, he untied the lacings holding her small clothes together, and then pulled them free of her body, leaving her naked before him.

He paused, gazing down at the vision that was his bride. The tightness that had grown in his throat threatened to suffocate him. Never had he seen anything as beautiful as the woman who was now his wife. He scolded himself as he felt himself tremble. She was so tiny…he raised a hand, brushing it lightly over Adela’s body, watching as goose pimples formed over her smooth skin. He continued to trace over her flesh, over the smooth unblemished flesh, tracing over the scars she had acquired during their mad mission to save Fereldan from the Blight. He bent down, placing a gentle kiss upon her lips, pulling away to resume his exploration of her body. Alistair categorized each scar, grimacing as he recalled the battles he knew she had obtained the blemishes in. A slight flush spread over her form as he continued his scrutiny of her, and he grinned.

“I love you, my wife,” he murmured as he bent down yet again to kiss her.

Adela raised a slender hand, tracing over his forehead, down his cheek, across to his noble nose, down to his chin. “And I love you, my husband.” She raised her head to meet his kiss half way, then she placed her hands upon his shoulders, and tugged. With a shout of surprise, Alistair found himself lying face down upon the bed, Adela scrambling away from him. Chuckling, he rolled over onto his back as Adela brought her naked form over his body.

A coy grin crossed Adela’s face as she gazed down into Alistair’s eyes. He raised a questioning brow to her, but her grin merely widened. Dipping down, she kissed him lightly upon the lips, moving down to his chin, then his neck, moving ever downward, kissing each part of him as she past by. That tightening in his throat moved downward as well, causing a slight tingling in his belly, his erection throbbing as it was pressed against Adela’s legs. Then her belly. Breasts. And, finally, he could feel her hot breath upon his thrumming manhood.

He tensed slightly as he felt the cool moisture as her tongue lightly flicked over the tip, causing a moan to escape his lips. He could hear Adela giggle as she increased her ministrations, finally taking the tip of his manhood into her mouth, and slowly work her way down. Maker! Where did she learn this? He had to wonder. And then all thought flew from his mind as he settled back deeper into the mattress and pillow, enjoying the attentions of his wife.

He risked a glance down to her, and found himself staring into her blue eyes, and she quirked an impudent blond brow at him. He watched as she worked on him, moving up and down, but always keeping eye contact. It was too much, and he felt himself explode. Adela gasped and then gagged as she strove to take him all. Giggling, she withdrew, wiping her mouth shyly, her cheeks crimson from what she had just done.

“Now, my love,” Alistair crooned as he pushed himself up to gather his wife into his arms, ready to kiss her. “Wherever did you learn such a naughty thing?” He nuzzled her neck playfully.

Still giggling, she arched her neck back, allowing him easy access. “Ah, well…you see. I had a talk with Leliana and Wynne…”

“Wynne told you about that?” He couldn’t believe it.

“No, no…ah, Leliana described it in detail. She even suggested the whole eye contact thing.” She pushed herself up to gaze directly into Alistair’s eyes. “Told me it drove men crazy.” She purred this as she pressed her nude form against his, kissing him upon his neck.

A growl was his only response as Alistair pressed her back down into the mattress, his mouth trailing kisses down her face and neck, between her breasts, to her stomach and lower.

“Well,” he mumbled between kisses. “I will have to see if I can put to use the advice I received.”

She gasped loudly as he made his way through the damp golden curls over her womanhood, his tongue flicking her swollen nub, his hands on each hip, thumbs caressing the smooth skin. As his tongue found her spot, her hips jerked upwards, a cry escaping her lips. He eased her thighs apart further, his head dipping lower as his tongue traced over her folds. A hiss breathed out from between her lips, expanding into a cry of disappointment as he pulled back, gazing down at her. She murmured pleadingly to him to continue, and the young man merely chuckled, bending down to lightly kiss her inner thighs. Trying to get him into the position she wished him to be in, Adela adjusted her legs, but Alistair merely moved along with her.

“You are a terrible tease!” she scolded breathlessly.

Deciding he had tormented her enough, Alistair bent down to her yet again, his tongue resumed the teasing of her nub and folds, and then plunged deeply into her core. His large hands encircled her bottom, holding her in place as he worked tongue and mouth onto her most sensitive area, riding out her bucking and thrusts. Gasping his name loudly, she arched her back, whimpering, as he continued his attentions.

She felt his tongue pull out of her, kissing her lightly before his mouth worked at her nub once more. Her body relaxed somewhat, her breaths coming in panting gasps. With a huge, self-satisfied smile, Alistair kissed his way back up her body, stopping at her lips, pushing his tongue into her mouth. He found himself strangely aroused by the combination of her taste and his. Pressing his legs between hers, he pushed her legs further apart as he rested at the junction of her thighs.

Gazing down at her, Alistair whispered, “I love you,” and kissed her again. Her hands rose to travel along his strong, broad shoulders, down his sides, to his narrow hips. She could feel the head of his erection at her entrance. There was a surge of energy, desire, lust and want, and she pushed down to meet him. Reaching down, she grasped him in her hand, her thumb rubbing up the hard length of him, smiling into his mouth as he moaned at her touch. Lifting her hips, she helped to guide him to her entrance, pressing her mouth against his harder. Alistair moaned loudly, pausing to steady himself and gather his breath. Carefully, he pressed his erection at Adela’s tight entrance, a groan escaping his lips as he slowly moved forward into her warm moisture, listening with barely concealed pleasure at the whimpers that escaped her throat. He paused, allowing her to acclimate herself to his size. With a nod and breathless gasp of encouragement from his wife, he pushed deeper, burying himself fully into her.

A moan rumbled in her throat, her head tossed back as her back arched. Alistair began thrusting into her slowly, his lips and teeth kissing and nipping her jaw line and lips, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, teasing her tongue as his thrusts grew in urgency and speed. Moaning together, they whispered each other’s names, promises of love tumbling from kiss swollen lips. Soon, words were lost as they were driven deeper into a passionate frenzy, Alistair’s hips pushing harder into Adela’s as she rose to meet each thrust with her own as he invaded deeper into her body. With a growl, Alistair’s body tensed as he released his seed deeply into Adela’s body. She gasped, pushing herself tightly against him as she met her own climax, her body shuddering against his, her sex tightening and clenching along his length.

Breathing heavily, Alistair pulled himself free of Adela, shifting his bulk to the side of her, enveloping her smaller form in his strong arms. Her lips were parted slightly, her body flushed and sweaty from their exertions, her eyes closed. He brushed a hand along her face and across her eyes, which fluttered slightly. He continued down her chest, to rest upon her belly, his fingers tracing tight circles as he gazed down upon her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she grinned up at him. “Hmmm...” she hummed contentedly, kissing him lightly where his mouth still rested upon her own. “That was rather…nice.”

Alistair chuckled into her mouth, pulling back. “Nice?” He quipped, moving away to gaze down into her contented expression. “Well, then, maybe we need more practice.”

Nodding her approval, Adela wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him back in for a kiss. “Yes, I would have to agree with you, my husband.”

[SheilaD67]

Ah, the reviews from last chapter…*grins* Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed: Arsinoe de Blassenville, CCBug, Nithu, tgail73, Katrina-Irene, Eriana10, Shakespira, celtic-twinkie, zevgirl

Okay, now let’s get back to the story…

　
The Halla Reborn
Chapter 44

They had finally departed Redcliffe. Artemis was their newest addition, insisting that he become a Grey Warden. Adela still balked at the idea of the joining, but knew that they needed a skilled mage such as Artemis, who had shown some skill with healing, primal and entropic spells. He said, with a smile, he liked to be devastating, but fix any injuries he may inadvertently cause. So, without showing him her personal reluctance, she welcomed him as a recruit, stating that as soon as they learned how to perform a joining, both he and Roland would complete the ritual.

Adela was more than relieved as the castle, and then village, finally settled further onto the horizon. They had turned southward, and although some of their companions cast questioning looks at her, the elven warden had decided to wait until they made camp to explain their current heading.

After all, to their knowledge, they were supposed to have turned westerly, toward the Frostback Mountains and on to Orzammar.

Finally, darkness fell. Camp had been set, with the hares and fowl Adela and Morrigan had caught roasting over the fire. Alistair came over to his wife, pulling her aside as they went over what they were going to say to their companions. Once the meal had been eaten, the pair of wardens called everyone together. Morrigan, knowing what the discussion would be about, settled close to where Adela and Alistair stood, Leliana taking her place by her witch’s side.

With a glance to the man who was both her Second and her husband, Adela stepped slightly forward, gazing around at the collection of warriors, mages and rogues that had joined their frantic quest to save Fereldan - and by extension, Thedas - from the Fifth Blight.

“As you’ve probably all become aware, we’ve taken a slight detour from our trek to Orzammar,” she started, smiling at her friends, her companions.

“Yes, we had noticed that instead of cooler, fresh air we were experiencing the joys of Blight blacked earth,” Zevran had chuckled, causing a slight ripple of chuckle from those within their camp.

Adela smiled at the other elf. “As you all probably know by now, Morrigan is the daughter of Flemeth…”

“Or someone who claims to be Flemeth,” Roland put in, still not certain he completely believed that the old woman who was their witch’s mother was the Flemeth of legend and lore. He merely smirked at the frown Morrigan cast him.

“I believe she is, indeed, the Flemeth,” Adela told the warden recruit with a slight smile.

Alistair nodded his head. “If she isn’t the Flemeth, she’s still an incredibly powerful mage,” the former templar put in, recalling how the old woman had shape shifted into a gigantic bird, plucking him and Adela from the bloody battlefield that was Ostagar.

Nodding her head, Adela turned back to the others. “Morrigan has discovered something rather disturbing.” Leliana put her arm around Morrigan’s shoulders. As the two had become closer, the more Morrigan had told Leliana of her childhood and past. It was obvious the bard knew where the conversation was leading.

“What discovery, Adela?” Wynne prompted, standing behind Artemis, her arms crossed before her chest.

“Morrigan discovered how it was that Flemeth was able to…extend her lifespan,” Adela frowned, thinking of the horrific ritual Morrigan had spoken with her about during their months at Haven. The very idea that someone would do such a thing to a person they had raised as their own…the very thought of it still made the warden cringe. And she had had months to live with the notion.

Morrigan straightened slightly, telling the others of her discovery from reading her mother’s grimoire. Wynne’s face hardened, her lips formed into a hard line. Roland and Artemis stiffened, the former knight’s eyes watching the misery of the witch. The Sten stood stolid, as always, his expression thoughtful.

“What does this news have to do with our ending the Blight?” Always so short sighted, the Sten was unable - or unwilling - to grasp the issue they all faced.

So Adela made certain to point it out in no uncertain terms.

“One of us is in grave danger,” she said to the Sten, her voice stern, unforgiving. “And when one of us is in danger, we all are.” She strode forward slightly, her blue eyes fixing upon the Sten’s impassive features. “And if we are all in danger, so, too, is our mission to stop the Blight.”

She raised her brows at the Qunari, expecting further argument. The Sten merely stared at her with those alien lavender eyes, taking in her measure. They then shifted to where Morrigan sat, next to Leliana, her back straight, her strange, predator eyes now fixed upon the Sten. After another moment’s silence, the huge warrior nodded.

“Indeed. We must not allow any to seek to interfere with our quest,” the Sten turned back to Adela. “Commander, what are our next steps?”

She did not take the breath she really wanted to. Of everyone, she knew that the Qunari would have been the tougher one to convince of the necessity of their next move. Sometimes with his single-mindedness, he seemed almost an unmovable obstacle, only wishing to move forward in a straight line, no deviation to the course. That he could see the danger to themselves and their mission by the threat of Flemeth always over their heads only confirmed for the young elf that their next mission was important and necessary.

“Obviously, Morrigan cannot go with us,” she said, smiling gently at the witch. Morrigan looked fairly miserable with that declaration, but had known all along she could not accompany the force that set off against Flemeth. “To do so may well give Flemeth the opportunity to take over Morrigan’s body as her own. So, she will need to remain behind, but with someone with her, protecting her, until we finish the job and return.”

“I’ll remain behind with the lovely witch,” Zevran volunteered, rising to his feet to stand behind Morrigan. Adela smiled, nodding her agreement. With Zevran’s skills, he could hide in ambush and await any attack Flemeth may devise.

Leliana offered to remain behind, but Adela shook her head. “We’ll need your bow, Leli,” the elf instructed, smiling with sympathy. “Roland will remain behind as well,” She looked over at the former knight. While he did not appear happy waiting behind while they faced the evil of Flemeth, he obviously agreed with her choice of leaving a warrior behind. After a bare moment he nodded his head.

Her blue eyes skimmed over the forms of those companions who would accompany them to Flemeth’s hut. Then, with a nod, she bid them good night. She expected them to be able to back at the wilds within the next few days.

DA:O

Arawn stretched out in his chair, dropping his feet unceremoniously upon the hard, oaken surface of the ornate desk he used. He smirked as he stared at the pile of paperwork - letters, requests, orders - that stood out in organized piles. One missive lay, spread open, upon the desk, the one he had been reading and re-reading for the past hour before he finally had to set it down. He glanced up as newcomers entered the room.

Rendon Howe and Elissa Cousland strolled into the room, her hand tucked comfortably into the crook of his arm. The mage stifled a slight grimace at the sight of the two. Elissa was undeniably a beautiful, well educated woman of obvious taste and nobility. That she willingly shared a bed with a man like Howe…the mage shook his head. Howe was a valued ally, a brilliant conspirator, and had proven loyal almost to a fault. Such ill thoughts were hardly worthy of the man.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Arawn asked as he straightened, pulling his feet from his desk to stand in greeting. Howe bowed slightly to the mage, yet Lady Cousland remained straight, her dark eyes scanning the form of the mage. Arawn did not stifle the smirk he needed to express. He knew well that the noblewoman did not like acquiescing to a mage. However, she was smart enough to know that he was the organizer of their plans, that without him, all would fail. If she had any desire for the power that seemed just beyond her reach, he was certain she was well aware that it would only be in her hand through him.

Howe shrugged his shoulders before turning to pour himself a brandy. Elissa went and sat down in a nearby chair, watching as her lover turned, leaning against the bar as he sipped his drink. “I just wanted to report the success in the alienage,” Howe purred as he set his glass down.

“The Tevinters seemed pleased,” Arawn acknowledged as he moved to Howe’s side and poured himself a small brandy as well. “Have any issues arisen I was not previously made aware of?”

“Issues?” Howe drawled, frowning. “Not as far as the Tevinters’ operations within the alienage go, no.”

“What then?” Arawn asked as he turned to face his friend. Howe frowned slightly, glancing uneasily at the young woman. Arawn followed the motion, a blond brow twitched upwards in irritation. “I do not like dramatics, Howe,” he growled, turning to resume his seat at his desk. “Out with it.”

Taking a breath, it was Elissa who answered the mage. “You recall, I am certain, that I had told you that there is another bastard son of Maric romping about.” Arawn nodded, fully recalling the conversation. He had dismissed the other bastard as insignificant, despite his being a Grey Warden. To Arawn’s plans for the throne, the knowledge that there existed yet another son of the Theirin line held little to worry over. And, with only two Grey Wardens within Fereldan, he discounted their ability to stop his ascent to the throne greatly.

“Well,” Elissa continued, a hand waving slightly as she spoke. “The elf he travels with is from the alienage here in Denerim.”

“So?” the mage asked. “Elves come either from the wilds or the Alienages. That the warden came from Denerim means very little…”

“Ah, but you do not know who she is, now do you?”

The mage frowned, glaring at the noblewoman. “As I believe I stated, Lady Cousland,” he growled out, “I have little patience from drama.”

Realizing she treaded upon thin ice, the young woman said, “She is the daughter of Cyrion Tabris. An artist well known throughout Fereldan...”

“So?” Arawn interrupted irritably. “An elven girl whose father is an artist is hardly anyone to be concerned over, Grey Warden or no.”

“It’s not her father’s lineage we are concerned over,” Rendon cut in, certain Elissa would only continue to irritate the blood mage. “But her mother‘s.” At that, the nobleman rose, striding over to the bookshelves. After a moment’s perusal, he found what he sought, and pulled a rather plainly bound book from the shelf. As he flipped through the pages, he slowly walked to the desk, his eyes upon the book. He then placed the open book before the mage, pointing to a picture of a wild elven woman. “That is more a cause for concern for the young elf.”

Arawn glanced down at the page, taking in the drawing of the elven woman, her expression fierce, her hair short and bound into tiny braids. An elegant bow, one he recalled seeing somewhere before, in her hand as she sighted down a heavily armored Orlesian chevalier. “So, she’s the daughter of one of Loghain’s Night Elves,” he shrugged. “What of it?”

Rendon frowned, and Elissa all but scowled at the mage. “No, Arawn,” Howe persisted, pointing at the picture again, this time pointing out the tattoos along the woman’s face. “She is the daughter of a Dalish Hunter.”

“Dalish hunter?” the mage glanced back down at the picture, his eyes going back to the bow. He frowned. “You’re wrong, Howe. The only elves fighting during the rebellion were Night Elves.”

“As per the ‘official’ history, yes,” Elissa said as she rose, frowning, to pour a glass of wine. “However, the tome you hold now is one written by Queen Rowan, King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. A more accurate accounting of the rebellion.” She smirked slightly. “Very few nobles have read it, however, and certainly even fewer commoners. It is a rather well kept secret, despite the efforts of the King, Queen and Teyrn.”

“They had Dalish warriors fighting alongside them?” the mage asked, this time truly studying the picture of the beautiful yet fierce elf.

“That is Adaia Mahariel. She fought by Maric, Rowan and Loghain’s sides.” Rendon frowned at the picture. “I met her during battle. She was perhaps the fiercest warrior I had ever encountered. Little love for humans, as well.” he muttered, recalling his disastrous meeting with the fierce elf those many years before. “She was very close to the Queen and Teyrn Loghain.” He tapped a finger at the picture of the bow. “She gave that bow to Loghain several years prior to her death.”

So that’s where I recall seeing it, the mage thought. “But what does our little elven warden’s parental history have to do with anything?” he asked. Both nobles rolled their eyes, turning back to the mage.

It was Elissa who spoke first. “That ’little elven warden’ was the friend of King Cailan and Queen Anora. She knows Loghain. Apparently, the Teyrn had an almost fatherly interest in the girl. If not more…”

“And?”

“Arawn, my friend,” Howe purred. “You are an intelligent man. Can you not see the potential if we were to manage to capture the elf?” The Teyrn of Highever tilted his graying head slightly. “She would be another means for controlling both the Teyrn and the Queen.”

Arawn scoffed. “Do you really think they would put such worth in one elf girl?”

Howe nodded. “Everyone knew of the affection the Queen holds for this knife-ear. The Teyrn was a very close friend to her mother. Was the girl not so obviously elven, I am certain other rumors would have arisen…”

Arawn scowled over at the noblewoman. “Did you not try to kill this girl while you were following them?” he reminded her.

The Cousland noble merely shrugged her graceful shoulders. “I did not realize who the chit was before I made such an attempt.”

Howe smirked at his lover. “That is correct. You were never at court whenever the little elf was about.”

“You’ve seen her before?” the blood mage asked, suddenly intrigued with yet another potential avenue for controlling their petulant guest.

“Indeed I have,” the Howe noble purred lasciviously. “Quite a beauty, that one.” He sipped his drink. “It was difficult to take one’s eyes from her.”

“I take it she is the one the rumors about an elf and the King were of?”

“Rumors only,” Rendon clarified. “Cailan was, truly, as loyal and faithful to his Queen as any man in love could be. The rumors never went anywhere, despite some nobles’ best efforts.”

Settling back into his chair, Arawn watched his two co-conspirators closely. “It would be a good thing, then, that your assassin failed in his duty.” He smirked as Rendon’s face paled slightly. “There is still the obstacle of actually getting the girl. She has proven elusive and capable. The rumors of villages being saved by Grey Wardens are starting to persist. If the Bannorn were not so caught up in their petty little civil war, I fear that public opinion would quickly turn to the Wardens, and no one would continue to believe that they were responsible for Cailan’s death.”

Howe’s smile widened, and he stepped up to refill his brandy glass. “We shall merely keep our eyes open and ears to the ground, as it were.” He lifted his glass, raising it in toast to the bastard of Maric. “Opportunities, my friend, abound. You merely need to know how to take advantage of them when they do.”

DA:O

A soft, feminine chuckled resounded down the desolate corridor. Loghain turned to his companion, watching as Nelaros turned his head this way and that, his sharp elven hearing trying to pinpoint the demon’s location. He watched as a slight smirk crossed the elf’s face, and Nelaros nodded, twitching his head straight ahead.

Raising his shield, the human led the way, the elf glancing behind them, wary for any more surprises from the predator that hunted them.

The pair was determined that this would be the final confrontation with the vile creature. They had spent weeks fending her and her ‘pets’ off, and had still managed to survive. Each man continued to sport terrible wounds, but most of those had healed. Nelaros’ hair had even begun to grow back.

The chuckle echoed from ahead once more, and the pair found themselves standing atop the once grand staircase. The elf pointed with his sword down the stairs, quietly advising the Teyrn that their quarry stood on the ground floor. Loghain nodded, then carefully began his descent to the main hall.

“Ah, my pretty, pretty pets,” the demon purred out, taunting the pair as they continued down the stairway, pausing at the bottom to take in the scene around them.

Standing in her near naked glory was the desire demon. Her hair - a swath of purple flame - blazed outward, her red eyes narrowed as she watched the two men. She floated a few inches from the floor, her hands twitching by her sides. Around her lay the bodies of many soldiers, portions of the ceiling and crumbled statues. The great double doors that led to the courtyard stood, hanging askew upon broken hinges, allowing gray light into the chamber.

“Tsk, tsk,” she tutted at the pair as they stood, shields and weapons in hand, ready for battle. “You two have certainly caused me some troubles,” she purred, smirking at the two as she floated a couple of feet closer. “But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.” Her red eyes settled upon Nelaros, venom and fury blazing therein. “And so must you.”

With a dramatic wave of her arms, she shouted out a word of power. The pair launched themselves at her as the bodies of the dead shambled to their feet, clutching rusted swords and dented shields in decaying hands. The demon let out a chorus of laughter as she commended her minions to attack the men.

DA:O

Nelaros staggered back, taking the brunt of the undead soldier’s shield bash into his own shield. His sword wavered slightly, but he gripped it tighter, pushing back with his shield, catching the dead man off guard as his sword swept in, lopping off the undead creature’s arm at the shoulder. No blood was forthcoming, and the elf found that vastly disturbing. Shrugging his ill ease off, he advanced, swinging his sword out and decapitating the thing in an easy swipe.

He heard Loghain’s warning cry, and spun about, twisting his shield closer to ricochet a crossbow bolt from him. Sighting the archer, the elf rushed forward, his shield before him to repel any other bolts, his sword swinging to knock the weapon from the near skeletal man’s hands. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the thing merely stood there as Nelaros ended its miserable existence.

A turn, and Loghain was fully in the elf’s sight. The young elven man was greatly impressed by the older man’s battle prowess. He watched as the elder man bashed his shield straight into the face of one undead soldier while his blade swept out to drive fully into the chest of another. A great war cry erupted from the Teyrn’s lips, knocking several of the surrounding foes backwards.

The desire demon watched all, occasionally muttering a word of power, trying to toss icy spells at the two mortals. Loghain always managed to shrug off the power, yet the elven man felt the cold keenly. Gasping for breath, he fought against the ice, pushing himself forward, towards the demon.

She had to die. Otherwise, both he and Loghain would continue to be harried by the seemingly endless supply of animated dead.

Chortling with evil humor, the demon turned her head, gesturing with one hand toward a group of lying dead. Nelaros saw his chance, and leapt forward, his blade held high above his head as he leapt over a fallen statue. His shield was held closely, but his arm held it like a taut spring, ready to unfurl. The demon heard him, and started to turn. Only to find the shield launched into her face, hard, smashing her nose, splaying it across her smooth, pale cheek as the elf’s full weight came upon her. With a shriek, she stumbled, her arms flailing as she lost her balance, finding herself down on her back upon the cold, stone floor. Nelaros landed gracefully upon his feet, his sword sweeping downward, seeking a quick end to the demon and to their torment.

But the demon had other ideas, and was not without her own abilities. With a snarl, she pushed herself to the side, twisting and curling, well out of range of the sweeping blade, until her feet were once again beneath her. As Nelaros recovered from his errant swing, the demon rose once more, tall and proud, oblivious to the blood and broken nose that marred her features. With a roar, her clawed hands swung out, striking the elf across the face, leaving deep, bloody furrows in their wake. Eyes watering, the elven warrior stepped back, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. Instinctively, his shield raised upwards, seeking to block any further attacks from the fiend.

He stumbled, his injured face tingling. Poison. Scowling, he shook his head, glaring into the leering face of the desire demon. He could hear Loghain in the distance, shouting out his war cry, steel against steel and bone, and he hoped that the older man could hold out long enough for him to finish off the demandable demon. She stood there, shaking her head slowly at him, tsking at him. With a great shake of his head, clearing out the fuzziness that threatened just at the peripheral of his awareness, he once again launched himself at the demon, surprising her with his sudden movement.

His blade met demonic flesh, and black ichor flooded from the gaping wound in her side. Her shriek echoed off the stone walls, painfully to the elf’s sensitive ears. Grimacing, he pulled back, ducking from a vicious swing of those poisoned talons. He could hear heavy running footsteps, and he risked a glance to see that Loghain had disengaged himself from the undead, and was running at the demon’s back, shield held up, blade straight. Nelaros ducked under another swing, knocking her arm away with his shield, smirking at the trail of blood the sharp edge of the shield left along her arm.

He straightened, bringing his blade to bear, as Loghain’s own shield bashed into the back of the demon, sending her screaming forward. With his own snarl, the elf braced his blade, driving it deeply into the demon’s chest. The force of Loghain’s blow caused her to impale herself deeper upon the blade, the very tip erupting from her back in a spray of black ichor. The human danced aside, narrowly missing the shower of poisoned blood.

Red eyes glared into Nelaros’ blues, and she spat, cursing the pair as she slumped to the floor, the light going out of her eyes. The elf quickly released his blade, stepping warily back, uncertain what form her death would take. Flesh and muscle, tendon and joints melted away, and the skeletal form of the demon crumbled to dust. The elf almost frowned, so disappointed was he with the lack of fiery display other demons had exhibited while in their death throes.

It seemed rather…anticlimactic.

Around them, those undead that remained suddenly fell to the floor, and crumbled into dust.

Around them, the decayed ruins of the palace disappeared, leaving only a field of gray fog surrounding them.

Loghain turned to offer some words to his companion, and frowned as he watched the elf, a confused expression upon his face, dissipate. Then, Loghain himself lost consciousness.

DA:O

Arawn poured through the paperwork, barely listening as his companions talked quietly in their corner. There was a sudden spasm of exhaustive pain in his head, and the blood mage groaned in pain, clutching his head in his strong hands as the pain intensified. Rendon and Elissa stopped their talk, and Howe rushed to his friend’s side, grasping hold of the mage’s shoulders as he continued to convulse. Elissa rose to their side, but stepped back as she saw the blood that dribbled from Arawn’s mouth, nose and ears.

“Get a cloth!” Howe instructed her harshly, holding onto the other man’s shoulders, confused and terrified. She did as instructed, placing it into her lover’s outstretched hand. Howe pressed the cloth to the mage’s nose, hoping to stem the flow of blood.

Arawn raised a trembling hand and took the cloth from Rendon’s own. Muttering at the pair, the mage shook his head, wiping away the blood from his face. He set his hands upon the hard, cool surface of his desk, steadying himself. He raised a face that was pale and clammy. His eyes, usually blue, were yellow and red, and continued to weep bloody tears. Elissa gasped at the sight, stumbling back slightly.

“We must get to Loghain’s chambers,” the mage gasped out in a voice that was raw and torn.

Without a word, without question, Howe followed the mage from the study, leaving behind a confused and worried Elissa.