There was a lightness in Alarion's step as he followed the small broken twigs and faint footprints of his intended target. The weight of the quivers on his back was a comforting one; light, intending only for animals, not a group he needed to take down. The sure idea that he was hunting again (for his clan no less!) nearly made him laugh audibly. It took more willpower than he'd like to admit to holding the noise in.

How long had it been since he had done this? A year? And for his clan? It had been close to eighteen months.

No, Alarion didn't want to think about that. He wanted to move like the streams, silent as a breeze.

The undergrowth below him gave little sound as he stepped lightly on it, head bent low as he moved with instinct. Soon, habit took over, forcing every thought in his head to dissipate. He was nothing other than an animal sent to get its prey. Nothing except smooth steps, careful breathing, and eyes scanning for the tracks he knew to be there.

He was close now. Close enough that he could feel his body shivering with anticipation. So very, very close. Reaching behind his back, he nocked an arrow slowly, enjoying the feeling of the fluid motion.

Before he could round the corner where he knew the beast to lie, he heard a snap of a twig behind him. His neck prickled at the feeling of being watched. A feral growl came low out of his voice as he spun around, arrow ready to fly. Bandits? Venatori? Red Templars?

A couple of squeaks of terror greeted him instead as he spotted a group of young elves. As he lowered his weapon, he quickly thanked every Creator that he hadn't let the arrow go on instinct. He scanned the group, recognizing a handful of them as da'len from his clan (though older now than when he left for the conclave). He assumed the others to be elves from the alienage.

Despite the relief that he hadn't hurt them, Alarion felt himself glaring as he said, "Followed me, did you?"

"Ir abelas, Haren." whimpered one of the elves Alarion didn't recognize. "We wanted to see the great Inquisitor hunt. We heard so many stories."

Alarion blinked a few times. It had never occurred to him that there were people that knew him as the Inquisitor but fawned in favor of his hunting skills over his mark. It felt both too personal and relieving to be idealized over something he actually had earned.

Wait. "Haren?"

A girl from his clan suddenly looked scared, as if he vocally stated his anger. "Is that wrong?"

He blinked a few more times, attempting to wrap his head around it while simultaneously trying not to feel old. Finally, he shrugged, "No, no. It's far better than 'Your Worship' or many of the other titles I've been called."

The main major of the group still looked as if they were waiting for Alarion to start yelling. He internally sighed. It had been nice while it lasted. Time to join the world of responsibilities again. Speaking to them, he squared his shoulders and said, "Though you made me lose my game, you managed to follow me quite a while before I noticed. Andruil be willing, you will all become great hunters one day."

The conviction in his compliment sent their faces reddening and their eyes wide. The entire group began to sputter out their thanks before Alarion managed to wave them away. It helped to remember that at their age, he would've likely done the exact same thing.

"Come on then. Let's go back to Wycome."

Though still disappointed that he hadn't managed to hunt anything, hearing the group's lively discussion about his technique didn't allow him to wallow too terribly. The way they talked about him was immensely embarrassing. Despite its daily occurrence, he still didn't particularly enjoy the attention.

On the other hand, it was very humbling. As he walked, he mused over the idea of what the younger him would've thought about all this. What would've it been like to have a living, breathing elf to look up to as a hero from a children's story?

Creators. Alarion felt the back of his neck warm. Maybe if he was lucky, the novelty of it would eventually wear off.

Still… he frowned as they walked, too lost in thought to hear their conversations further. It was unsettling that these da'len were able to so successfully sneak up on him. Were they simply so skilled at such an age, or was he getting rusty? It had been nothing but politics for the last few months for him. It wouldn't too surprising that his skills were fading from lack of use. He needed to do better.

Less in his head. More observant to his surroundings.

Nodding, Alarion turned his attention to the woods. As if on cue, he heard a small twig snap somewhere behind him. His entire body locked, feeling the adrenaline and fear that mixed so distinctly together. The unconscious act allowed the group to walk a few pacing ahead before one turned around to look at him.

"Haren?"

Without replying, Alarion's body took over and he launched himself directly at them. He managed to tackle a few to the ground, but not enough of them. Amidst the cries of fear and confusion, he heard the wet gurgle cry of pain as the arrow intended for Alarion's shoulder had found its victim in one of the elves' chest.

The sinking feeling took over as Alarion quickly stood, bow raised. The cold understanding that he hadn't been astute or fast enough. It hadn't been the elves he heard following him.

Instinct took over. He let loose three arrows before his brain began to categorize. Five young elves he needed to protect; at least one injured; at least seven assailants; between three to five archers; one dead and another injured from Alarion's retaliation.

Alarion dove out of the way of a swung sword, an arrow finding its mark in his victim's throat. A scream from behind told him that one had ahold of one of the elves. Arrow in the temple. Wasn't wearing a helmet.

Pain erupted in Alarion's left shoulder, barely able to repress most of the scream that torn from his throat. Ignore. Ignore for later.

Three. Four. Five assailants killed. Maybe two remaining archers. Two assailants still charging.

One was quick. A rouge. Alarion just narrowly avoided the quick swipe of duals blades appearing from the underbrush. Before the rogue could strike again, a small dagger glazed in a Tears of the Dead tonic flew from Alarion's side, finding its mark.

The small victory was short lived. An arrow found his chest, pain distracting him, but only long enough to kick himself for not wearing armor, even if he was just hunting. Dorian was going to kill him.

No. Not now. Protect. Had to save.

Arrow. Arrow. Arrow. On in the armor, the other in his hand. The man doubled over, howling. It hadn't been where Alarion had intended, but the ache in his left arm was beginning to ache. He was also running low on arrows! He had to do more!

Panting, Alarion took a step forward, looking for other archers before the men charging around him could get closer. How many were there left? Where were they hiding?

Pain blossomed in his lower left calf now. Unable to stop himself, he toppled over, screaming in agony. Vision briefly faltering, he panted, looking around. He had never been one for the direct assault. He had always done better with others to take the frontal as he picked people off.

Because he was weak.

A yell behind tore his gaze back. The elves were holding their injured friend, looking terrified. He had to do something!

Turning back to the fight, Alarion spun just in time to see the shield before it smashed into his face. He saw white. A tug on his mind threatened to take him under. Ironically, the almost certainly broken nose's pain grounded him. He spat out the blood, rising to his feet.

He was going to save them, no matter what.

But all the fight suddenly washed out of him. His body froze, the sensation of ice dancing down his back. The man he had injured earlier was standing at a good distance away with a knife to one of the alienage's elf's throat. The lad was whimpering, looking terrified.

Seeing the drain, the man grinned widely, brandishing the threat with a yank to the elf's hair. "Drop your weapons or the boy dies! You're fast, little rabbit, but not that fast."

Weighing his options quickly, Alarion tried to think past the building rage and utter freezing consuming fear. "You'll kill us anyway." He spat, stalling to attempt to think up a plan. As they spoke, Alarion knew the remaining enemies were positioning themselves to have a better position to strike at him.

"What are you talking about? While I wouldn't mind losing one or two, I want most of you Knife-Ears alive. You'll all make very nice investments."

"Slavers!" He actually spat this time, grip tightening on his bow, but otherwise didn't move.

No. No. No! This couldn't happen. Not again. Never again.

"L-lethallin…" The captured lad whimpered, pleading.

Lethallin.

Alarion blood was boiling. It couldn't happen again.

"I won't tell you again. One dead elf is fine with me. How about yourself?" To show his point, he drew the blade upwards drawing a little blood from his neck as he did.

And in that moment, Alarion knew it wouldn't happen. Not while he was still alive.

"Wait!" Alarion cried, immediately repressing the panic in his voice though the slaver certainly noticed. "Wait. You just want money, right?"

"Don't even think about trying to pay us off. We'll pick you clean anyway."

"Not what I had in mind." His voice was low, almost growling. A small quick and quiet thank you to Josie for teaching him how to control his tone. "I am Alarion of the Lavellan Clan, The Herald of Andraste, Lord Inquisitor of Skyhold. The mark on my hand verifies as such." He lifted the anchor to prove his point and was beyond relieved to see the look of recognition and shock on their faces. "Surely I would sell for a higher price than all of these elves combined; whether as ransom or as a slave. Agreed?"

The man seemed to shake away his surprise rather quickly. "Agreed."

"Then take me instead."

"No, lethallin! You can't!"

"Silence!" Alarion, growled, though he felt no animosity to the da'len. "Now, I will lower my weapons if you let the rest of these elves go and I'll go with you peacefully if you let him go as well. I swear upon Andraste herself I will let you bind me, drug me, imprison me – the works. I swear to you that I will not fight, so long as you leave my clan in peace. But if you break our agreement, I will bring upon you the wrath of the Maker Himself. Do we have a deal?" It was annoying, having to sound like he believed in their blasted Maker and his bride, but it was the best choice of words to try to save them.

The man hesitated, thinking it over. Finally, "Too good to be true."

"For you, it may seem so. But my clan is more important to me than I am to me." His hand gripped his bow so tightly it was starting to hurt. He would do anything, anything to ensure that it would never happen again. He refused. Not while he was still breathing. "Let them go in peace, and I will not fight you."

Nodding once, he turned to his men surrounding them and gave them a nod as well. "The elves are free to go."

"B-but…!" He heard from behind him.

Alarion had to ignore them. He couldn't look away from the small elf with a knife to her neck.

His neck.

He was getting dizzy. But he had to ignore it. Had to be strong.

"Go! Run as fast as you can!" He barked. And, thank Mythal, they heeded him. They scampering off quickly, fear overwriting their worry for him. Grateful, Alarion threw his bow to the ground a few feet in front of him. Unsheathed a second dagger. Removed his quiver with his few remaining arrows. Despite this, he never diverted his eyes. "Now. Him." He demanded.

When he saw the idea starting to dance in the man's eyes, Alarion snarled, stomping one foot down. Voice now particularly oozing in venom, he snarled. "Don't you dare break our bargain. Andraste granted me the ability to fight with her mark alone. You won't want to hear your 'precious investment' would you?"

With a single smirk, the man slowly removed his knife and released the boy. The lad fell forward, looking paralyzed in fear. He stared up Alarion, eyes darting across his face. "Go, da'len!"

"B-but–"

Alarion looked at him directly, a small smile flickering on his face. "You'll be okay. I promise. Now go!"

Nodding, the lad ran off, slightly falling over himself. Alarion watched him go with a now sad smile before he felt the hilt of a sword on the back of his head. Before the world spun with pain and darkness, he could finally ignore and pretend no longer.

Terror beat against his heart. He could feel his hands growing icy before his vision tunneled and he could feel nothing more.

Dorian! Ma'arla, ma halani! Dor–

o.O.o

Before his mind could clear, Alarion cried out silently for Dorian's comfort. He wasn't sure what had happened, but everything hurt. He was scared.

Dorian would help. Dorian always helped. No matter how little or how big, Alarion knew his strong warm presence would be at his side in a moment's time to help solve the problem. He would be witty and sarcastic, making him smile no matter how scared he had been before. Ma'arla, ma'arla, ma'arla…

He reached out searching for him. Surely the man lay next to him in the bed like usual? Despite such a strong initial objection, Dorian had moved past his discomfort to stay with him after their lovemaking. Eventually, it became an every night occurrence even without sex involved. The fact that Dorian had overcome his anxiety about scandal just for him, just for him… Alarion didn't have words for it.

When he couldn't find his lover, his eyes opened in terror. Where was ma'arla? Where was Dorian?

His vision was swimming, the entire world dancing in nauseating swirls. He let out the smallest whimper of pain, shutting his eyes as he buried his face down. Why was he on his stomach on the hard muddy floor? Why couldn't he move? Was he bound? Why was he bounded? Where was he?

'What happened' is probably the better question, Alarion.

Noting that his inner voice was starting to sound a bit like Dorian, Alarion wiggled so he could fall onto his side. Ignoring the brief pain it caused, he tried his best to look around. It was dark. From the smell and the sounds, he was still in the forest. Was he alone?

Not able to move much, Alarion closed his eyes and focused on his ears. There were faint sounds in the background, but they were dimmed. Were his ears covered? He was having a hard time sensing any real feeling. Despite that, the pain in his shoulder, calf, and overall soreness were ever so persistent. What luck.

You're bound, Alarion, but not helpless. Start small. Wiggle a finger or a toe or two. Then, hopefully, the rest will come. His mental pep talk done, he concentrated on his left hand. If he couldn't wiggle a finger, at least he might be able to feel his mark tingling.

To his surprise, not only was he able to make a finger or two squirm, it did so with ease. If his movements weren't being stopped by bounds, why did everything feel so slow and weird?

Wait, hadn't he been able to flip himself over earlier? If he was having a hard time remembering only moments earlier, he had no hope of trying to figure out his situation.

"Ugh," he moaned, wishing the hazy fog surrounding his brain would disperse. Was he hungover or did he get hit in the head? Either way, his head was pounding.

"Oi," came a soft whisper somewhere above him. "It looks like–" suddenly the soft voice became overbearingly loud and terrible, "–the Crow Venom is wearing off. Give his Worship another dose, will you? We want him docile before he is sent to the Qunari."

Qunari? Crow Venom?

"Right, right."

Why were they so blightedly loud?

Mercifully, the elf slipped back into unconsciousness before anyone else could speak one more blighted word.