A/N: Welcome to the new, improved chapter one. I've decided that while I write the rest of this, I will sporadically be editing and improving the first eight chapters which were written without the input and corrections of Darkly Tranquil.

Those of you who have read later chapters will probably see the foreshadowing of later events described in more detail. To say this makes a better read is an understatement, and editing this has been an eye opening experience to say the least. But, then I consider this to be a journey of writing, improving, learning and trying again.

I would be grateful to anyone who gives me feedback on the chapter – if you have already reviewed it, then please drop me a PM. I'm curious as to how you will all view the changes.

So, as we have had a 'take two', shall we go for 'third time lucky'?

13th Havestmere, 9:30

Ostagar, Ferelden.

His Royal Highness Prince Alistair Theirin, Crown Prince of Ferelden fumed as he threw aside his brother's written decree. He had not fought in a single battle since arriving at Ostagar, but this new order felt like nothing short of an insult; King Cailan had decided in his 'infinite wisdom' that Alistair was only worthy of babysitting a flame atop of a tower with Ferelden's newest, blindest, magiest Grey Warden. Oh, how the mages of Ferelden adored him. He imagined the mage wasn't exactly going to be happy about it either. So it would be yet another battle he would not fight in; at least on every other occasion Cailan had dressed it up as commanding the reserve detachment should the darkspawn break the front line but it didn't take a genius to work out that Cailan clearly did not think he was good enough to join him on the front lines.

Alistair sat down heavily in a chair and leant against the table pondering his change in fortune over the past six months. Perhaps it would have been better if Cailan had left him in the Chantry resigned to his fate as a stoic, unrelenting Templar. It wasn't as if he was trusted to do any more than sit on the side lines while Cailan showed off his skill in battle, basking in more and more glory as the golden King of Ferelden. He didn't specifically want the glory Cailan seemed to thrive on, but it would be nice to do something that didn't involve standing around when he could be doing something useful – like skewering darkspawn on the rather nice long sword that had been presented to him as a late wedding gift by Teryn Cousland when he had arrived for the first time in Highever.

In the past six months, his brother had paraded him around impressively and this was no different; everything from his acknowledgment as a Prince of Ferelden to his lavish wedding to Lady Elissa Cousland of Highever were all carefully planned events. He was sure they were all designed to show Ferelden how forward thinking Cailan was in providing, at least, a temporary solution to the growing concerns about the succession. All Alistair had to do was smile, look happy about it, and get Elissa with child in case Cailan did not provide an heir of his own.

In truth, Alistair didn't really feel like a Prince, and although he was getting used to being royalty he wondered if he would every shake of the feeling that he was just a commoner who happened to be the son of King Maric. To make it worse, his brother had actually formally made him Ferelden's King-in-Waiting, meaning that should Cailan die in battle, Alistair would automatically take the throne as he already had the approval of the Landsmeet and the fealty of the Bannorn. It was a precedent that could only be used when the current King was to go into battle so as to not leave the Kingdom without a ruler should the worse happen. While it was all well and good in the eyes of the Kingdom, Alistair had yet to work out how to be a man free of the confines of the Chantry, much less a Prince and now possibly a King. The Maker only knew what Cailan was playing at.

Still, that didn't mean he was going to sit back and be happy with his brother's decision. While they weren't what you might call close, the boisterous, unflappable King of Ferelden had told him that he was always welcome to make his voice heard; a privilege that might just be revoked after this outburst. Alistair donned his armour without the aid of his trusty steward Imeric Couldry, who had unaccountably disappeared into the camp on some unfathomable errand or other, taking some minor satisfaction that while he might not be able to do many of the things his brother could, he could at least get dressed without the aid of servants. Checking himself over one final time to ensure that all the buckles were firmly cinched and the plates sitting correctly, Alistair exited his tent and made his way to his brother's ostentatious royal pavilion which, owing to its garish colours and design, was hard to miss. Cailan's home-away-from-home was an enormous octagonal monstrosity made of alternating strips of canvas dyed red and yellow, the colours of the Royal House of Theirin, with small pennants bearing the three mabaris rampant of the Crown of Ferelden fluttering from the numerous tent poles that supported the grandiose affront to good taste.

Apparently, it wasn't enough for Cailan to have a tent like anyone else, he had to have this outlandish looking thing from Antiva in order to remind everyone at all times where the king was to be found. Alistair's own otherwise comfortable accommodations were small and drab by comparisons; kind of like me, Alistair reflected with a degree of bitter amusement.

Alistair's eyes flicked over the other pavilion beside the King's noting that Teryn Loghain already left some time ago to ready his troops for the ambush. Alistair was grateful for that; the Teryn was an ever foreboding presence who cast his dark, distrusting gaze over everyone who dared to approach the King.

That Loghain should be directing his scowling gaze at everyone he encountered was not, in and of itself, unusual; in the relatively brief time he had known the man, he had yet to firmly establish if the grizzled general was in fact capable of any facial expressions other than a frown. But in spite of that, Alistair could not help feeling that since they had arrived at Ostagar, Loghain's expressions had, if it were even possible, become frostier than he had previously noticed. Or maybe it was just him? It was well known that Cailan's decision to acknowledge him had been against Loghain's advice.

It was slightly disconcerting after being used to the more easy going, friendlier manner of Teryn Bryce Cousland, his young bride's father. The head of the Cousland family had become a mentor to the fledging Prince, guiding him through his new duties with a firm but friendly hand. It was just a shame he was letting the Teryn Cousland down by not being much of a husband to his daughter. Overwhelmed by the extent of all he was expected to learn, he felt he had become somewhat neglectful of the beautiful women who most men in the Bannorn would have given there right arm to marry. She had grown distant during the month they spent in Denerim to hear the news of the Blight; she had passed it off as tiredness, he had seen a weariness in her eyes and he wondered if she wasn't coming to regret their marriage. Elissa had given up a great deal of her personal freedom in becoming his wife. He hadn't pressed her into revealing the reasons for her distance; he didn't really know how to and he was a little afraid of the answer she would give him. He had been aware that Elissa had been ducking marriage for some time and had only recently started considering who she might take as a husband when they met. It was not because she had any eagerness for marriage, quite the contrary was in fact the case, but because she had been assaulted by Thomas Howe for rejecting his advances again, and securing a husband would protect her being subjected to the further attentions of Howe and other of his ilk. When this was over, Alistair vowed that he would do better by his wife; it did not take a genius to work out that she was a rare and wonderful beauty who deserved nothing less than his love and devotion.

As he entered the King's tent without waiting for permission to do so, he saw Cailan being dressed in his grand armour of gilded Silverite. He held up the decree. 'What is this supposed to be?'

Cailan cast his brother a sidelong look. 'An order, I believe,' he said good-naturedly. 'I need you up there.'

Alistair's face darkened, his eyes narrowing on his brother. 'You need me to babysit a torch while you get all the glory?' he inquired struggling to keep his voice civil and remembering he was not just talking to his brother but to his King as well. 'I should be on the field. I'm not exactly uncertain of how to use my sword.'

'I am aware of that, which is why I need you up there,' he replied. 'I need someone up there I can trust.'

The young Prince saw what he thought was a grimace pass across the face of his older brother. When Cailan did not comment further, Alistair said, "I thought Loghain's men were up there?"

"They are," Cailan confirmed.

Alistair was now genuinely confused. "But if you can't trust Loghain, who can you trust?"

The King turned his gaze on his new-found sibling. "You," he said simply.

Alistair frowned at Cailan. There had been a lot said between them since Alistair had returned to Denerim to hear the announcement that the darkspawn were massing to the south. He didn't like where much of this was going, not least because Elissa had come to similar conclusions he had after the Bannorn had sworn their loyalty to him should Cailan fall. 'You speak as if you suspect treason from Loghain,' he said dropping his voice.

Cailan ran his hand though his golden hair looking uncharacteristically agitated. 'I fear I have crossed Loghain's final line of tolerance,' he replied. 'Things are looking less certain, brother.'

'You fear we will lose this night?' asked Alistair. 'Then perhaps you should be off the field, sire, you are our King.'

'What sort of King would I be if I left my men to fight this alone, Your Highness?' Cailan asked with the stiff formality of a man insulted.

'I doubt any would judge you, Your Majesty,' he replied carefully, noting that as the King had called him by title, he should do the same. 'You have been on the field for every other battle, even our father did not engage in every battle he planned against the Orlesians.'

Cailan shook his head. 'I'll not hear of it,' he replied, 'I have led my men here and I shall stay with them. It is not mere men we fight here, but creatures from the darkest pits of Thedas. You should fear not, brother, I am perhaps melancholy due to our long stay here.' Their eyes met; all that boyish charm back. 'I hate to ask you to do such a seemingly menial task, but I trust you will not fail.'

The dismissal was implicit, leaving Alistair with little choice but to bow and withdraw. 'I will not, Your Majesty,' he said with deference before turning his back on the King and heading out into the early evening.

Alistair was far from convinced by Cailan's joviality; he knew that things were not right. There had been whispers to that effect in the shadows of Denerim. His steward Imeric, who seemed to have ears to the ground in every noble house, inn, tavern, whorehouse, and Maker's knows what else, had reported that the nobility grew increasingly restless about the state of the Royal household. There had even been some rumblings that Anora might have to be put aside for the good of the nation if she could not bring forth an heir in the near future. The failure of Queen Anora to produce an heir was itself a factor in Cailan's decision to acknowledge his bastard brother and to wed him to the daughter of the powerful Cousland family; a sop to silence the concerns of nobles who feared a crisis should some misfortune befall the King. The deteriorating situation with the Darkspawn at Ostagar would only serve to further spook the already fractious and fearful nobility. Alistair suspected that the Bannorn was regretting supporting Cailan after Maric was lost at sea; many of the Arls and Banns had wanted Teryn Cousland to take the throne. His wisdom in ruling, popularity with the nobility and secure line were all attractive prospects, but the Teryn had declined putting his support behind Cailan.

While the Ferelden army had seen victory in the battles they had faced so far, their losses were forcing them to draw reinforcements from further and further afield to replenish their numbers, and in spite of the fact that the Fereldans felled ten Darkspawn for every man lost, nothing they did seemed to appreciably thin the horde's numbers. Reflecting on the reinforcement issue, it occurred to him that it had been nearly a week since the arrival of Fergus Cousland and the Highever soldiers, but there was still no sign of Teryn Cousland, Arl Howe, and the troops from Amaranthine. Scouts as far north as Lothering had reported no sign of the five-hundred strong force Howe was bringing. Fergus had intimated that the Amaranthine contingent seemed to be dragging their heels, but that his father and the additional forces should have been no more than two days behind him. Teryn Cousland should have arrived four days ago, and yet there was still no sign.

That wasn't the only evidence that pointed to something wrong. He had sent several letters to Highever addressed to his wife, and while she did not reply to every letter it had been nearly ten days since the last one. Elissa asked him to write so that she would know he was well, and in return, she promised him she would do the same. This would be the first time she had been left in charge of the Terynir when there was a real possibility that she could find herself in the role of Teryna should her father and brother fall in battle. Prior to his departure for Ostagar, Elissa had confided her fears about the whole situation, and they were both acutely aware that they were only a single Darkspawn blade away from their lives changing forever. He and Elissa had discussed their respective wishes for their married life, and both had agreed that ruling over Ferelden was something they could happily do without. But if Cailan fell in battle, there would be no avoiding the responsibilities that came with his blood and he would be obligated to become King, a prospect that whenever he considered it, filled him with a cold dread. Alistair sighed and sent a whispered prayer to the Maker that the Couslands were fine, that no harm came to the Princess or her family. But it was difficult to tell himself such things when faced with the dire events that were happening around him. Instead he set about looking for his steward, if things went badly tonight, as every fibre of his being said it was going to, then he needed to get word to Elissa. If all was well in Highever, then it was likely she would have left for Denerim again; now a senior member of the royal family, she would be required to attend the Satinalia festivities in the capital. True to his ever optimistic nature, the King had been confident that he and the other nobles leading the forces at Ostagar would be back in for the celebrations.

He found Imeric haggling with the quartermaster for some of his strictly 'under the table' wares. Alistair was fairly certain that he wasn't supposed to know about the 'unofficial' inventory the quartermaster was maintaining, which was why he had sent Imeric to obtain a Silverite rune on his behalf, lest he draw undue attention to the man's clandestine business despite every one knowing about it. He hoped that his steward would be successful, as he was keen to get the rune mounted on his sword before the next battle, assuming that he could find a nice mage around here to do the work. As he waited for his servant to conclude his negotiations with the Quartermaster, he absently wondered if there were any nice mages, as he certainly hadn't encountered any thus far. Due to his well-known history as a former Templar initiate, he did not enjoy any popularity with the magi, so he was well aware that getting their co-operation would involve significant expenditure of charm and effort. Still, he remained hopeful. He had seen the Spirit Healer who had helped Elissa after her encounter with Thomas Howe; she had greeted him with a smile and when he asked, she had explained what the mages were doing. She was nice, but she was a healer, not a runesmith.

'Every time you show up, he hides the damn thing away again,' Imeric groused as he sauntered over to his lord. His blue eyes twinkled with something akin to mischief. 'You'll never get that flashy Silverite rune at this rate.'

Alistair chuckled as Imeric fell into step with him. His steward was always well groomed with a professional appearance that seemed to be at odds with his ability to haggle and deal with the merchants and soldiers. When Alistair had first met him, he had assumed that Imeric was, as he was, a nobleman's bastard. They were always easy to identify due to certain facial features that seemed to dominate much of Ferelden's nobility – high cheeks, rounded chin, and long nose; all features that Alistair carried as well. However, he soon discovered he was wrong when he had encountered Imeric's elvish mother from whom he had inherited his near noble facial features.

'Perhaps if you were more effective at haggling you'd have had it by now,' Alistair pointed out wryly.

'Aye, well, I didn't expect him to be the cagey sort,' replied Imeric, slightly affronted at having his abilities called into question. 'Apparently he doesn't want to get himself into any trouble. I did tell him that everyone from you downwards knows about it, and it's only the King who's walking around with the clouds in his head, but he won't have it.'

Alistair shook his head at the candid man, barely suppressing a smile. He liked the man, and once he had gotten over his initial trepidation of having a personal steward a decent rapport had sprung up between them. While it was a relaxed relationship, when compared to those who served Cailan, Imeric always called him and Elissa by their respective honorifics which maintained their respective roles as master and servant. It had been strange having someone to serve him after being brought up as a commoner. Although he might never think of himself as a prince, Alistair had come to accept that other people did and with that came a certain expectation about how to behave around the people he had once considered his peers. Imeric had proven himself to be reliable, not just as a servant, but as a man who had his ear to the ground and Alistair soon found he had a constant stream of information from Imeric's 'contacts'. It amused him no end that Imeric had a shady side, but so long as he wasn't robbing the nobles, Alistair found he could let that slide in return for being well informed.

'Anyway, was there something you needed, Your Highness?' Imeric asked as they approached Alistair's pavilion.

He explained what had happened with Cailan in hushed tones once they were in the pavilion. Imeric looked troubled at the news of the King's doubts, but he promised that should things go ill, he would get the hell out of Ostagar and back to Denerim in time to intercept Elissa before Satinalia to give her the news of what had transpired. It was not a burden he wanted to leave with Elissa should he die, but should things go ill, Alistair was confident that Elissa would know what to do with tidings.

Once he had sent Imeric on his way, Alistair pushed the dark thoughts from his head; he had a mage to find and then a job to do. Maker willing, he would have the morning to set about discovering if all was well in the Northern Terynir that had become his home. Alistair made his way over the Warden Encampment where a lone mage and the Warden Commander stood apparently arguing; clearly Ferelden's newest Grey Warden wasn't happy about being kept off the battle field either, although Alistair was uncertain at what a blind man could achieve. There was rumour from the Circle mages that Daylen Amell had overcome his blindness and was still a force to be reckoned with. That somewhat scared Alistair not that he liked to admit it or anything.

'My skills,' Amell said to the Commander, 'the ones you claim to be highly prized will be better put to use on the field not babysitting a pyre atop a tower.'

Duncan sighed. 'It is by the King's command, Daylen,' he said before looking up to see the Prince. 'Your Highness?'

'Commander,' he greeted with a nod of his head. 'His Majesty has commanded that I accompany your Warden into the tower.'

The Mage turned his unseeing eyes on Alistair; he was tall but rakish, a testament to a life time in the Circle as oppose to a life time of physical hard work. Alistair was surprised to see that he was young, older than him but far younger than the other Warden's in the camp. Daylen Amell would have been handsome were it not for the scars that dominated one side of his face. Against the flickering light of the bonfire, the scars cast odd shadows across his face. Alistair could not help but feel sorry for the man; it was clear the scars on his had been created by being burnt but how and by what he didn't want to speculate. The injuries were the likely cause of his blindness. His eyes were glassy and glowed, flickering in the fire light, with only the barest hint of the blue they once were which added to the illusion of an unnatural luminosity in his eyes.

His lips were curved into a sneer of immense displeasure, and he threw his hands in the air in disgust. 'So not only am I reduced to an errand boy, but I am to be accompanied by the Templar Prince.'

Alistair frowned; so that was the inventive nickname the Chantry and Circle had come up for him. It was wonderful to finally see them putting aside their difference to work together on something truly important. So nice to see the Blight bringing people together; perhaps when the night was out they could all line up and dance the Remigold in celebration as well. Sod fairer rights for mages and not being looked upon like the dirt of Thedas's shoe, so long as he had a nickname. The Prince shifted his stance and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the mage, who looked about ready to launch into another round of argument, when Duncan spoke again.

'I believe His Highness has forsaken any vow he took as an initiate,' the Commander told his Warden sternly.

Amell shrugged carelessly. 'As if that makes it better, he is still a puppet to their teachings,' he sneered.

'Well, how about I promise not to smite you, if you promise not to turn me into a toad?' offered Alistair, affecting a good nature to his voice that was plainly sarcasm.

'Do not mock me, boy,' Amell shot back.

'Enough,' rumbled Duncan. 'The King has commanded that you do this with the aid of Prince Alistair. You are a Grey Warden, and I expect you to act like one; if you wish to be distrustful of the Prince then do so politely.'

Even Alistair had to smile at the Commander's choice of words.

'Your Highness, I trust my Warden will come the no harm with you?'

'Well, I can't speak for any darkspawn we may encounter, but from myself, no,' he said.

'I will hold you to that,' replied Amell, 'a single hint of dispelling…'

'And nothing,' cut in Duncan again. 'Do try to remember it is the Crown Prince of Ferelden to whom you speak and not some initiate with an ill-conceived grudge.'

Amell bowed to Duncan before stalking away with unerring steps in the direction of the Tower despite nothing being able to see. Alistair looked back at the Commander.

'I would not normally speak of a Warden's background particularly with someone who is not one of us,' explained Duncan solemnly, 'but it my understanding that Daylen was involved with an altercation with a Templar some years ago that left him without his sight. It makes him more distrustful than most.'

Alistair nodded his head. 'I will do my best to see his is not harmed,' he said as a sickening horror filled him with the realisation whoever had been responsible for Daylen's injuries was someone he would have been expected to call brother, bound together by lifelong vows and Lyrium addiction. He shuddered.

'Quite,' agreed Duncan, as he guessed Alistair's train of thought.

'Commander, perhaps you could watch over our King as I watch your man,' Alistair asked of Duncan as he pushed away dark thoughts of the Templars replacing them with bleak thoughts of the battle ahead.

'I will do my best, Your Highness,' he said quietly.

Alistair offered him a bow. 'Then may the Maker watch over you, Commander.'

'And you,' he said, 'Highness.'

-…-

The ruin at Ostagar was eerily quiet as men filed in rank into the gorge below leaving just the sick in the infirmary, Prince Alistair and a blind, bad tempered, Templar-hating Mage who was twirling his staff threateningly. Alistair attempted not to look at him, drawing his sword and looking at the men in the gorge and to the far right where the faint flickers of Loghain's flanking force. A strange feeling rose in his throat as he pondered Cailan's earlier words, 'crossing Loghain's final line of tolerance'. It was yet another bad feeling he had to put aside. He certainly didn't relish all these bad feelings. Alistair looked over at the Mage. 'Ready?' he asked him.

Daylen brought his staff down with a sharp clack on the paving stones. 'As I will ever be.'

'Right, then. Off we go. The sooner we start, the sooner we're there,' said Alistair moving off assuming the mage didn't require him to hold his hand or anything.

As such the mage kept place with Alistair with no trouble, his unseeing, glassy eyes almost glowed in the night but they remained resolutely staring off into the darkness. As they reached the end of the bridge Amell's staff touched his shoulder bringing him up short. He looked back to see the mage's empty gaze on him.

'You should be mindful, there are darkspawn ahead,' he said quietly. 'Be wary of their blood or else you may be in for a lengthy and painful death.'

Alistair didn't need to be told, he had seen the fate of men infected with the corruption of the darkspawn, the day and night were intermittently pierced by their agonised screams. The first night at Ostagar, the sound had kept him awake and he had found himself at the feet of the statue to the prophet Andraste, praying that the men found peaceful release from their pain. As the days wore on he blocked out the cries but every morning he prayed for them to the point the Revered Mother commented that had he been so dutiful in the Chantry he'd have been made a Templar long ago. The callous remark only served to reinforce Alistair previous suspicion that she really was a poisonous old hag than she had been when he'd had to deal with her when he was Initiate, thinking it ill that she could interrupt personal reflection in such away. The difference between Ser Alistair of the Templars and Prince Alistair Theirin of Ferelden was that he cared for the men and women that pledged their lives to fight for Ferelden whereas he didn't care enough about the Chantry and its works to dedicate his life to them.

A thought hit him as he realised the implication of Daylen's warning. 'What are they doing this far forward of the line?' he hissed. 'What do we do?'

'Kill them,' replied Daylen in a manner that suggested it was the obvious thing to do. 'Have you ever faced a darkspawn, Your Highness? I am certain that you have been here for some time.'

Alistair sighed. 'You'd think that,' he said bitterly, 'but I think I was dragged along so that I could marvel at the King's magnificence while I watched from the side-lines.'

'You've not actually fought in battle since being here?' asked Daylen incredulously.

'Nope,' replied Alistair. 'I've been akin to a glorified squire to the King.'

'Well, the only advice I can offer is to stick your sword in them,' said Daylen. 'I'll try not to hit you.'

It scared Alistair how deadly accurate Daylen was. The mage pin-pointed their darkspawn foes and dispatched them quickly and efficiently with a barrage of precise spell casting that left Alistair grudgingly impressed. After the first skirmish was done he turned on the mage, sword away but hands on hips. 'How did you do that? You can't even see.'

He hadn't meant to say it like that, but the mage had even managed to pull off a few shots over Alistair's shoulder that would have surely killed him if they had hit him instead of the darkspawn. The Mage leant against his staff and smirked at him as if he were actually looking at Alistair.

'There are other ways to see,' said Daylen. 'My other senses compensate for my lost one.'

'Well, that was certainly impressive, Ser Mage,' replied Alistair. 'Thank you, I think you may have saved my life once or twice.'

Daylen's expression changed, surprise was etched in this young but scarred face. You're welcome, Your Highness.'

'Please, just call me Alistair,' the Prince said. 'Everyone calls me 'Your Highness'. I'm in danger of forgetting my own name at this rate.'

-…-

The Prince and the mage battled their way through the ranks of darkspawn that infested the lower levels of the tower, but saw no sign of the Gwaren troops that were supposed to be manning the structure. In one room on the lower level, they discovered a large hole in the floor that appeared to have been recently excavated. This, Alistair presumed, was the Darkspawn's point of entry into the tower. If Loghain's men had known of this vulnerability, then why hadn't they informed the king of this potentially fatal flaw in the plan.

Reaching the top of the tower, exhausted and aching from battle, they were confronted by an ogre that appeared to be busily devouring the remains of the unfortunate soldier that had been manning the lookout post. Alistair stumbled to a standstill muttering an expletive that made Daylen whip around in surprise.

'They teach you those words in the Chantry?'

'You'd be surprised at how much a thorn in their side I was,' muttered Alistair with a smirk. 'But that doesn't solve how to kill a fifteen foot ogre.'

'In theory I'd assume it wouldn't be much different to a six foot Hurlock.'

'I'll distract it while you do your magic thing,' replied Alistair running forward with his sword drawn and shield at the ready.

Somewhere between the bridge and the top of the Tower to the two men had come to an unspoken agreement; Alistair watched for Daylen's magic and applied his physical strength in its wake, speeding up their kill rate. So far Alistair had witnessed the Mage freeze, shock and incinerate their enemies while he followed up those attacks with his sword in the gullet, across the throat, pommel hits to the head and just about anything else that would finish off the monstrous creatures. With that in mind, Alistair went into distracting the beast, instinctively ducking when he felt the drawn of magic from behind. Daylen hit the creature with a frozen blast that only left a light frosting over the skin of the creature. The ogre roared as Alistair went for its hamstrings, hoping to bring it to the floor; it would be a lot less deadly if it were lying on the ground. Despite his best efforts, Alistair was certain that thus far, all he had achieved was to enrage the beast further, which by his reckoning, was not a particularly good result. It was bad enough having an ogre stomping around but an ogre in a temper was a particularly hazardous proposition. He managed to plunge his long sword in the hulking beast's knee just as Daylen called for him to watch out. Alistair rolled, diving as far as his heavy armour would allow as the ogre was brought to its knees in a storm of lightening. He picked his moment, running for the beast and then leaping, springing from the floor in a move that seemed impossible for him to achieve under normal circumstances. His sword plunged into the creature's putrid chest, assailing his senses with a stink that made him want to retch. The ogre bellowed as Alistair pulled his shield down, slamming the edge into its neck right through flesh, muscle and artery.

'Watch for its blood,' Daylen yelled, reminding Alistair to keep his mouth shut as he jumped off the dying beast.

Once clear, Daylen flayed the ogre with lightening until it lay lifeless and slightly smoking. Alistair swiftly turned his attention to the battle below but the tower was so high he couldn't see much of anything. 'We've likely missed the signal,' he told the mage, 'we should just light it the beacon.'

Without a word, Daylen took his aim; strangely accurate again and threw a powerful fireball that exploded setting alight the beacon. Alistair's eyes shifted to the location of Teryn Loghain's force, watching, waiting, his breath was held in his throat as Daylen joined him.

'Why aren't they charging?' hissed Alistair.

There should have been some movement, anything, but he couldn't see a thing, not now the smoke was billowing through the room. The chamber doors banged open, causing both men to turn towards the noise just as the flanking force on the far side of the field began to march away from the battle still raging in the gorge. Another motley band of darkspawn flooded into the room howling and roaring their bloodlust. Before either man could react, they were struck by a volley of arrows and crossbow bolts, the projectiles easily piercing their armour to plunge into their chest, abdomen and limbs.

Alistair's thought of his failure as he collapsed; he might have carried out his brother's wish, but he had failed Daylen and also Elissa, a widow before he had ever worked out to be a husband to her. His last thoughts were of her as the darkness took him and his wish that she would find happiness with a person of her own choosing.