AN – I need to apologize for the previous quality of this chapter. I was too eager to post and it showed the inferiority of my style. It is all fixed now, I apologize once again. =]


By the time Celia and her companions arrived in Val Firmin, Alistair and company had already crossed the mountains. Back in the open air once more, they headed for the cities that were located just off of the Imperial Highway. But as usual, they had come to encounter many obstacles in their journey. The cities on the other side of the Frostback Mountains were the territories of dispute between Orlais and Ferelden, and this proved to be a tricky situation for the group. When asked to help fight for Ferelden, these people would say that they were the citizens of Orlais, thus escaping their responsibility.

Alistair ground his teeth in silent anger every time he came to encounter yet another member of the nobility that spoke with an over-exaggerated Orlesian accent. He realized that these people found a great excuse not to fight – in fact he was sure if it was Orlais that was under the immediate threat of the Blight, these cowards would declare to be Ferelden citizens and wouldn't take up arms in either case. Celia would know what to do here better than he did – he thought of using coercive tactics… But he failed to see a positive outcome from violence. Here he was, doubting his actions once again. Admitting their defeat after being refused aid at every city they visited so far, Alistair looked to Zevran for reassurance that he was taking the right course of action by not using violence to convey his message. Walking away from the possibility of a fight seemed cowardly to Alistair, but beating the aristocracy into submission could have turned ugly for the group, the ranks of which had been depleted by Celia's command. The assassin had shaken his head and ushered him out of yet another drafty castle that smelled of stagnation and rot.

Lately, Zevran had come to be his closest advisor in their travels. Alistair felt at ease when speaking his mind to the assassin – after all, he was Alistair's constant bodyguard, and could read the Warden's own thoughts effortlessly on his own. They grew closer especially after their fight in the Redcliffe Tower; now, Zevran was more approving and supportive of Alistair's decisions as his leader. And if Alistair looked to Zevran's advice on a situation, the elf never held back his counsel and proved to be loyal and agreeable. Leliana was also useful in these coastal Orlesian cities – she was knowledgeable of her homeland and persuasive when needed, though so far they had still no luck in winning the aristocracy over to their cause.

Having been turned down in all three cities along the Imperial Highway that they came to so far – Halamshiral, Lydes, and Verchiel – looked to be a continuing trend for the group. Now back on the road, the four trotted beside their worn-out horses, preoccupied with the last city on their plan to rejoin Celia and the rest of their companions; Montsimmard stood in between them and Val Firmin, where Celia was supposed to have met Sten's Qunari reinforcements. They were crossing the Heartlands. The weather was light and the breeze warm. With every step they took, they were getting further away from the sea, though the zephyrs still brought the saccharine smell of salt and freshness to their nostrils. Their journey was easy and full of uncorrupted green lushness of nature, but the one thought uniting everyone's mind was their approaching meeting with their companions.

Zevran's eyes roamed all over the road in front of him, seeking out any and all footprints and clues, his brain busy interpreting all he saw. His heightened Dalish senses told him that his companions had not ventured this way yet – his heart jumped at the thought of encountering them soon. In his mind's eye he could see his most desired image – Celia walking up to embrace him, smiling openly, sweetly, as she very rarely did – though covered in dust and dried blood, as per usual. Enemy blood would somehow always find its way onto her face and clash against her olive skin, standing out and drawing closer attention to her subtle features. No trace of insecurity was ever spied in her appearance. Always preoccupied, always thinking, his leader was resolute in her movements, whether she was at rest or fighting. Even with her face relaxed, she somehow always managed to look intense, until a smile swept her features into an expression that could light up a room without exerting much effort. He yearned to keep that elusive smile lingering on her lips – yet it was incredibly hard to come by.

And then there were her weapons… Ahhh yes, those daggers he coveted since their smooth appearance at his throat many moons ago; the lithe twin knives forged of some cold unearthly metal, glowing even before it was infused with lyrium and fire. He had yet to extract from her exactly where in her travels she had come to acquire these weapons. During a fight, these weapons would be almost undetectable, only able to be located by the most trained of eyes that could follow the faint glow each dagger left in the wake of Celia's lightning movements. In fact, he thought to himself, seeing Celia without these daggers in her hands was strange and alien. Her dark hair laid on her shoulders in a bit messy way – but this didn't take away from her beauty, rather punctuated it. Short of stature for a human female, she was the perfect height for someone his size, he observed to himself with glee.

She was rarely seen without armor, weapons, and random blood spatters lining her body. Suddenly turning mischievous at the thought of one of these rare occasions, he hid a smile from a nearing Alistair – though his efforts went unnoticed by the other man, since the male Warden was lost within the folds of his own mind as well.

Alistair was in fact thinking about Celia also. Trying his hardest to shift his feelings for the other Warden into ones of platonic friendship, he found the easiest way to think of Celia was as his elder, more experienced sister – that was most efficient. He could follow her lead and truly believe that whatever course of action she decided to take was best for them all. Yet he could never get all of these straying thoughts out of his head.

She was rational as always when she told them she had no time for feelings. She was right; they raced against time to rouse an army to defeat an unyielding evil that stood ready to attack before them. He had experienced the same nightmares as frequently as she had; deviating from their purpose was ludicrous, so what in Maker's name was he thinking? Yet these illicit thoughts kept coming… Even if he somehow managed to change her mind about recognizing love – why would she pick him? Though Wynne had encouraged Alistair to keep proving himself to her, he did not think that it was getting him anywhere. Celia had turned him down, and twice; yet accepted his rose after a particularly bloody battle – even if only as a token that would bring her luck. She saw him merely as her brother – of that he was sure. His heart aching for acceptance from her on any level she would allow, he brushed these straying thoughts out of the forefront of his mind with an effort. First priority – to amass this army at any cost. Everything else is to come second.

Yes, this was rational: this was something that Celia would agree to.

All the while Leliana hummed a very pretty melody to herself as she walked, whistling some key notes for variation. This melody drew her in and made her think of the vast night sky, full of dazzling constellations of the old – she wondered why this melody stirred this emotion in her. Perhaps because it had a minor sad overtone to it, and made the melody sound forlorn yet infinite like the ungraspable vastness of the heavens. Various sounds always seemed to have different personalities to the contemplating bard. This was an innate ability in all good musicians, she thought. Being able to reinforce her stories with a melody that brought with it a feeling or a characteristic that the audience could recognize was a sign of a true great bard. The Maker granted her this gift – and she would be sure to use this melody someday, she thought, tucking it deep into the reservoirs of her memory. Zevran and Alistair walked ahead, both preoccupied and lost in their own thoughts. She knew what was on their minds because it was clearly laid out in hers – the fact that they had yet to collect an army of suitable size was a bothersome thought they all shared – but she had faith that the Maker would take care of it. If it was meant to be.

"My dear girl," Wynne's steady voice broke her focus. "That melody you have been developing is far too sad for this occasion. The music that spills from your lips always has such an effect on our male companions, look there." She pointed at Zevran and Alistair's bowed heads. She was right, they were both looking peaky. "Don't you think it would be more sensible to sing something more cheerful?" The elder mage showed benevolence and good will towards all of her companions, with no discrimination. Well, at least until they were travelling with Morrigan again...

Leliana agreed. With her thoughts still centered on Celia, she tried to convert the energy she felt from the Warden to one of the melodies she knew. Within their brief time of acquaintance, Leliana managed put together a mental image of the Warden, as mysterious as Celia still seemed to her. She felt that Celia was protective of every one of her companions, even though she didn't know Leliana personally. The Grey Warden seemed like an old soul to her – stable and experienced, reassuring and invulnerable; her essence fed them all – whether it was during combat or in camp. But the source of it, she couldn't quite grasp. The fight with the false Andraste was still fresh in the young woman's mind. After all, Leliana had almost died from the force of her body impacting the solid rock wall, when she was thrown aside by the dragon. But it was Celia's incredible energy that fueled them all, pushed them to find Leliana, to heal her; it was Celia that dragged her back out of the giant proverbial hole that welled up to swallow her spiritual essence. It was that same unyielding energy that bit at their ankles now, urgently pushing them forward to find her.

But Alistair also possessed this enduring energy. She wondered if this was the mark of a Grey Warden. He was still a child, yet after their short stay in the Redcliffe Castle, she noticed a great change come over him. He was tougher than before, she thought, less yielding to what others wanted of him. She sized up his backside – he was still too cute in a goofy, sweet sort of way. There was a certain kindness to him, some deep seeded notion of chivalry towards all women he came across – and that she very much enjoyed.

Her wandering mind finally landed on a proper ballad; she chose to sing a tale of the chivalrous warriors of Ciraine. The numerous tribes of Ciraine came to this land before Orlais was plotted deep on the map of Thedas. These warriors were the pioneers of her own Orlesian culture – they lay down the foundation of Orlais in their legendary battle against Dumat, the first archdemon. Fighting alongside the first Grey Wardens they had spilled their heroic blood to give a chance to the future generations to flourish on this land. The ground they walked on was inundated in their blood, and in her individual way Leliana felt a deep connection to her valiant predecessors, as she was also fighting alongside her own Grey Warden companions, shedding her own blood so that others may live to tell her tale someday. Yes, it was the Maker's own hand that put her on this path, she had no doubts about it. She sang an audacious tale that was far from a happy account of the Ciraine warriors and their epic battle, but the effect of her ballad on the two men was immediate; emboldened, they grinned back at her, gathered their composure, and had found more confidence in their steps. In the distance, rising out of the dust and bustle of the unknown horizon, the spires of a castle were beginning to appear.


"Enchanted," she says, smiling a slow, open-for-business smile that she knows can light up a room and at the same time send a chill down the nerves of his all-too-human spine. And enchanted he is with this Grey Warden, and even though his noble wife is sitting a few paces away, he is thinking of nothing else but this young thing and himself, somewhere alone together – their clothes suddenly nonexistent. Her touch is velvety smooth, as is her voice that caresses and strokes his already inflated ego in all the right places. His heart pounds in his ears and he is tempted to hold on to her hand even though she is intent on pulling back her pursuit. He will continue to play this cleverly arranged game. He continues to watch her as she retreats back to her place beside her very diverse companions; but they are not important right now. She bows low, and this break in their eye contact lets him somehow find his voice.

"So what brings the Grey Wardens to my humble city? I daresay a trip to Montsimmard is a bit out of the way for a social visit, as much as I would like to believe so," and he has said too much he thinks. Her eyes do not leave his, and he becomes increasingly excited. His wife clears her throat and he silently curses his advisors for their unfortunate choice of a spouse for himself. Compared to the delightful creature standing in front of him, his wife is a hobgoblin. It is impossible to stay faithful in an arranged political marriage, he thinks; and he is glad to see that the Warden is not taken aback by the resentment his wife fails to hide.

A flush fills her angelic cheeks and a mournful expression sweeps her features; he does all in his power to stop himself from dashing to her side and consoling this extraordinary woman that has arisen such cravings in him, in both purest and dirtiest ways his limited imagination allows.

"I am afraid that the Grey Wardens are not as… ah, potent as they used to be." Her eyes slide from his face down the entire length of him, lingering on his midsection. And now the chair he sits in is too constricting; he believes with all his might that she is also longing for him. She plays the enchantress – and he cannot resist her calling. The smooth rolling of her R's assures him – the possibility of her experienced tongue is most certain. He tries to decipher the origins of her accent, but once again – it is least important right now.

She bows her head sadly. "The Blight rages on across the mountains in our country to the east." She places a great importance on uniting them – and just the two of them – under one flag. Unbeknown to him, she has already placed a suggestion into his pliable mind. The Lord aches to feel connected to her in any way that is possible, and she hears the echo of her suggestion, planted deep in his psyche as he speaks next.

"Ferelden will not fall. Our country is great."

She graces him with a heartbreaking smile. "The defeat of our army at Ostagar has set us back. We need your help, specifically, Lord Aurelien."

He considers this. Yes, she may have him under her spell from the way she says his name ever so gently, but... No. He still has control of his reasoning. Under the gravity of this situation, the Dark Spawn threat may completely decimate his forces. His knights are of his own blood, and he will not give them up easily, even to her.

She licks her lips, seeing him attempt to gather the last of his failing psychological fortifications. "I will consider this a favor of great personal exclusivity." The accentuated word is all he needed. He breaks: he is rational no more. Beside himself with passion for her and her cause, he is on his feet in a flash, clutching her hands in his own and uttering promises of salvation. Intoxicated by her eyes, the fluidity of her movements, he notices nothing else present. For Aurelien, it is just him and the Warden – and he is her dutiful servant. Yes of course; she will have her soldiers – she can have anything she wants, just as she will have him groveling by her feet and pawing at her door every night.

She smiles knowingly, deliberately, casting a sidelong look at the defeated Lady of the House. These humans are too easy to break. Recognizing their desires, flaunting them, and then taking them away – throws them off balance and out of their comfort zone. It is then she shapes them in her own way, and they cannot refuse her. She is the enchantress, the snake charmer: she plays the notes and they dance to her will.


"That was a sickening display, demon," Sten scowled at the Warden when they returned to the atrium, finally away from the sons of Monstimmard. They had just finished surveying Lord Aurelien's forces at the bequest of the groveling lord himself. He proudly ushered them into the barracks, demonstrating his dutiful willingness to help with the war effort.

She considered him with a knowing smile. "Ivralian. And I will not ask you again, Sten. Do call me by my proper name." She paused for dramatic effect. "And my 'sickening display' worked in our favor. We now have soldiers from a city that for the most part considers itself to be Orlesian."

Morrigan commended the process and result of the demon's handiwork immediately, even as Sten scorned it. This manipulative side of the demon-Warden sat well with the scheming apostate. Ivralian was well-learned in the ways of silver-tongued manipulation – and Morrigan enjoyed seeing the demon craft this finely woven web of promises; ones of desires and the fulfillment of those desires. Ivralian granted her a genuine smile of recognition; though human, Morrigan seemed to be more intelligent and devious than the rest. The fire demon was intrigued in seeing her skills in the future, even if just to amuse herself.

The Mabari hound cowered nervously by Sten's side, as he had been doing since Ivralian's voluntary switch with Celia. Ed recognized that his mistress was somehow not the same, but didn't comprehend how this was possible. Everything in his canine brain told him that nothing was wrong – the smell of his master had not changed – yet he knew this being was not his master. Whining, he shrank away from the path of Ivralian's gaze every time it came his way. The only comfort Ed found was in Sten, as Oghren was unnecessarily drunk and indifferent to everyone since the switch took place. Regardless, whether this was his way of coping with following a demon indefinitely and to unknown ends, or just the result of the sudden increase in his supply of liquor, the dwarf was borderline comatose from his gluttonous drinking habits. Sten looked after Celia's loyal dog, preferring the company of the hound to the much less wanted company of the other party members. And Ivralian had yet to find a use for the hound, so she was content with Ed staying out of her way.

"Come, we are staying at their tavern for the night. Anywhere far away from that drooling fool is good for me," the Warden motioned to her companions. Oghren burped in approval and pushed open the front doors of the hall, leading the rest of the party to the Montsimmard Marketplace. The problem facing his wholly inebriated mind was the delay brought on by his overindulgence in alcohol. It was moments later that he finally recognized the source of astonishment and dismay that was holding back the rest of his companions. It took him even longer to identify the eager forms of Alistair, Zevran, Leliana and Wynne, making their way through the marketplace and up to the front doors of the Montsimmard Castle, on their way to greet them.

"Oh, Maker." Celia's first words since her awakening only a few moments before echoed in the demon's head. Having finally awoken from her lengthy coma, yet still feeling weaker than ever, the sight of her four absentee companions – alive and well – gripped all of her senses with trepidation. "What now???"


AN – Thank you guys so much for reading and putting up with my silly erratic language when I first posted this chapter.

Don't forget to drop a line and tell me what you think =]