From her window in the castle, she watched him leave with his angry little brother in tow. He waved goodbye to the Redcliffe villagers; just fifteen but with all the assurance of a full-grown soldier. His little brother scowled; an expression that marred his angelic beauty. The dark-haired teen wasn't handsome, but the villagers smiled at him anyway, cheering and waving as he passed them. She wished that they would smile like that at her. She wished they didn't hate her. The little girl in the window wished she could go with them.

Ferelden was in turmoil. The rebellion pushed forward on all front, slowly recapturing what was once lost to them. Whispers came through of Orlesian defeat in small villages, in big cities. More and more of her countrymen passed through Redcliffe Castle on the way back the homeland. There were rumors of those who didn't make it. Redcliffe stood strong; her father was not about to let go even when all odds were against him. He grew mean, desperate and frustrated, taking it out on his poor daughter. The villagers hated him, but they were to well protected. She only wanted to go home, to get away from the anger and the hate. She was assured that the hate would never go away if they left now. In Orlais, everyone knew about their family's mage blood. Redcliffe was a punishment – they had to prove themselves by staying strong. The girl, now older, cried herself to sleep at night, and dreamed of a dark-haired savior.

Ferelden had fallen. Or rather, it had been restored; it was the Orlesians in Ferelden that had fallen. Denerim now belonged to King Maric Theirin. Lands were being returned to their rightful retainers. Redcliffe was the last holdout. Her father had gone mad. She was no longer allowed to leave the castle. She decided to help the Fereldan's; sneaking out messages and strategic information through her guards and maids. She did not sign her name. She watched from the window, and waited.

He returned; now a man. From her window, she watched him fight to regain Redcliffe, to take it back from the usurper, her father. She saw the passion and determination in his face. She saw him tend to his men, gentle and encouraging. Once she saw him look towards her window with those same gentle eyes. She sent a letter detailing the location of a tunnel leading to the castle.

They came at night. She was asleep. Someone put a hand over her mouth so she would not scream. She tried to claw and kick, but more hands were holding her. They took her down into the dungeons of the castle she grew up in; she wore nothing more than a nightgown. She shivered and wept the entire night.

They left her alone for a long time, bringing neither food nor water. She slept fitfully on the stone floor, but never for very long. Murmurs and whispers permeated the stone floor. Her father had gotten away. She remained a prisoner. She tried to tell them that she was on their side, but no one believed the Orlesian girl. She had no more tears to weep.

And then there was him. A teenager wearing the beautiful face of a smiling, charming angel, but the cold, calculating eyes of a snake. She cowered as he loomed over her.

"Orlesian whore." He spat on her dirty nightgown. He signalled to the guards; they removed themselves from sight. He examined every inch of her, all the while slowly undoing the ties on his pants. She shook with fear and squeezed her eyes shut. He fell upon her hungrily, one hand on her neck, the other parting her legs. A small noise of fear escaped her lips as he tore away her underthings. She felt him pressing against her and her senses retreated to a dark corner.

Then he was gone, and she was alone again; battered, bruised, and bleeding. For how long she lay in the dungeon like that, she knew not. They finally brought her food and water, and every so often the angel-faced demon would return to her. She lost all sense of time and knew only pain.

There was cheering in Redcliffe Castle; a dull roar that invaded her retreating mind. The smell of roasting meat wafted down towards the dungeon, and her mouth watered despite herself. The guards outside her cell were chatting animatedly, and just a little too loudly. A celebration of the return of the Guerrins, and their victory in routing out the last taint of Orlais.

There was the sound of footfalls on the stairs. She shivered in a conditioned response when the shadow darkened her cell. It was not him, it was not the auburn-haired demon. A kindly, if homely face smiled down at her and reached his hand out. She took it slowly, trembling. She tried to stand but fell back, too weak to move. The man supported her back with his other arm, carefully and firmly and helped her to her feet. She stared into light blue eyes, full of pity and kindness.

"Come with me." The dark haired man said to her. There was no trace of hatred. She almost wept, it had been so long since anyone had spoken to her like that. He and the guards took her upstairs to his study, and helped her sit gingerly in a comfortable chair. He sat down in the chair behind the desk, across from her. They stared at each other for a long moment before the man spoke again.

"I am pleased to have finally get my land back; it was not an easy battle. Your father was very stubborn, I hope you realize. I may well have failed entirely if it wasn't for a spy in your midst. Whoever it was deserves a reward." She said nothing, so he continued. "It occurs to me that this priviledged information could only come from a few sources. It would have to be from who understood Orlesian and Fereldan equally well, and it would have to be from someone extremely close to the usurping Arl. Tell me, could you help me find this person." He pushed forward a pen and some paper. Her hands still shaking, she wrote only a short sentence and a flourish for a signature. She pushed the paper back to him. He looked down and smiled.

"I thought as much." He gazed into her eyes, curious. "Why? Go against your own father? Your own country?"

"Because your people love you. And you care for them. My father... he was sent here as a punishment. We never should have come here. They hated us. They hated me. But you..." She faltered, unable to say what she really felt.

"I am Eamon." He finished when she could not continue. Her response was automatic, years of social niceties drilled into her.

"And I am Isolde. Pleased to meet you."

"And I as well." That voice held a surprising amount of warmth. "Let's get you fixed up, and get you something to eat. You are a prisoner no longer, Isolde. You are my guest."

It felt so good to get clean again, at least superficially. She revelled in the feel of clean silk and cotton against her skin. She took only a few bites of the food set before her, but altogether she was happier than she had been for a long time. Once she was presentable, Eamon returned.

"Let us join the rest of the celebration." He held out his arm, and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together they descended the stairs towards the grand hall, where a magnificant feast was taking place. The revellers cheered as Eamon came down, and he waved at them. Most ignored the honey-blonde woman at his side, though there were a few curious stares.

She saw him. He was smiling and laughing with some soldiers. He glanced over to the Eamon and smiled. He stood up, and strode over to them, oozing confidence and geniality. Isolde pressed herself closer to her escort, her hand digging into the sleeve of his shirt. Eamon clasped hands with her tormentor, smiling.

"Hello brother. May I present to you Isolde? Isolde, this is my brother Teagan."