I've been a bit under the weather, and hadn't been able to do any writing these past couple of weeks. However, I have to say, this chapter practically wrote itself. Nothing serious, all fluff and fun. But, still, it got me back into the swing of things.

My thanks to everyone who reads, lurks, alerts, and reviews. Nithu, I'm talking to you!

From Isolation

Chapter 8

Months of traveling with Sorcha and her rag-tag band of misfits had hardened Jowan physically, accustoming him to hard travel and harder work, tough battles and horrible cooking (well, when Alistair was on cook detail, that was). The weeks since taking over the Arling of Amaranthine had seen the mage in the wilds more often than ensconced in his comfortable bedroom and offices. Honestly, it had become almost second nature to the formerly soft mage whose toughest physical exertion had been to climb the stairs from the apprentice quarters to the classrooms on the upper levels at Kinloch Hold.

Battles had become common place, a near daily event, both during the Blight and whenever he and his fellow Wardens traipsed about the woods, wildernesses and paths that crisscrossed the Arling. His staff now sported a spear-like tip, testimony to the ability of the mage to not only meet foe with spell, but with brute force if necessary.

That's him - brutish blood mage Jowan. He could almost hear the adrenaline pumping through his veins, hot vibrancy coursing throughout his body, energizing him to play at the hero once again. He took a bold step forward, back straight as he considered the numerous foes that awaited him.

Only to quickly freeze, his hand upon the doorknob, as he considered what truly awaited him in the Great Hall.

Nobles.

Frankly, the mage would far rather face a swarm of darkspawn and emissaries than what passed as Ferelden nobility.

Grinding his teeth, the mage adjusted his tunic, twisting it slightly as he then tugged at the trousers that covered his legs. He felt far more comfortable in his robes, however the Seneschal (and may the Maker assure Varel always remain at the Vigil and live a long, long life!) had suggested that the mage dress as a noble instead of his mage robes when facing Amaranthine's nobles who awaited below. Anders scowled at the well meaning seneschal while Velanna had scoffed loudly. However, Jowan nodded his agreement, assuring his fellow mages that they could remain in their comfortable robes (although Jowan truly wished the Dalish mage would wear something a bit more…appropriate for greeting the largest Arling's nobility. He swore she wore less than Morrigan had). Anders simply stared at his fellow Circle mage for a moment before giving him a curt nod. Velanna merely stalked away, continuing to mutter under her breath.

Despite being a blood mage; despite having hated every minute of his confinement in the Circle. Despite what he may have said a time or two prior, Jowan was a devote Andrastian. He believed wholly in the Maker, and believed that, on the whole, Andraste had been a woman of great vision and firm compassion. He doubted seriously that her words that magic should serve man meant that mages should be imprisoned merely for being mages. There were many times he and the resident Mother at the Circle had come to harsh words over the interpretation of the Prophet's words, and always, the mage had left in a huff, his own arguments falling upon deaf ears.

Jowan also firmly believed that the Maker was out to get him. Personally. That, somehow, at some point in his life - prior to his use of blood magic, of course - he had so offended the Maker to the point where it became the Maker's goal to make the mage as miserable as possible.

His months with Sorcha must have been the lead up to the Maker's greatest prank yet on the poor sod.

And so, here he stood beside the always efficient Varel, listening as this noble and that gave his or her oath of fealty to the Arl of Amaranthine. One by one, led off by the harpy Bann Esmerelle, the nobles bowed deeply (or not so deeply) before the mage, voicing the same old oath, few offering any inflection in their voices as they repeated the same tired old words that they had sworn to the previous Arl (that thought gave the mage more than a moment's pause), and the Arl prior to Rendon, and so on back into history.

He doubted most of them even know what the true meaning behind the words were any more.

It was obvious, however, by some of the tight faces he watched as they spouted out the ancient oath: Many of these people were not happy giving such an oath to a mage.

He would have shrugged, had it not seemed impolite (something Varel had taken a great deal of time explaining to the young mage). Maker forbid that Jowan appear anything other than graciously accepting of the cowtowing, mewling nobles spewing of the rhetoric tantamount to mere recitation verbatim of an oath none of them believed in.

Even those who were devoted to the Arl could not possibly mean the words that came from their mouths. Not if they had managed to spout the same words off to the former Arl on a regular basis. After all, how could they possibly mean to be loyal to a man who murdered his way to the top and then mean them again to a mere mage who had a hand in stopping the Blight?

Well…maybe if they knew he was a maleficar…?

Stop it, stop it! He reprimanded himself as he forced his mind to cease its wandering and focus upon the nobles. He knew the Maker was having a great laugh. He then wondered if Sorcha was there, by the Maker's side, sharing a chuckle as well.

That would be so true to form for his love. He could almost see her laughing at him.

An eye roll caused the noble before him to stumble at the words spilling from his mouth, and Jowan felt Varel stiffen slightly beside him, a silent reprimand. As cover, Jowan smiled benignly at the man - Noble Somesuchorother - who returned the smile and finished his oath, stepping aside to allow an older woman to spew - ah, make her own oath.

What he really wanted to do at this point was to turn tail and run. Just run. Head for the wilds, perhaps. There were still darkspawn there. Although from a recent report he understood that there was something in the wilds keeping the majority of what was left of the horde at bay. He had wondered at that, but quickly pushed it aside. His time, for now, would be spent in keeping Amaranthine safe; turn it once more into a profitable port.

Perhaps manage to not get himself killed in the meantime. Now that would be perfect.

He was certain that would be plenty for him to do for now.

After all, this was the perfect activity for a Grey Warden in Ferelden. Secure profit.

Oh? There are darkspawn still in the wilds? I'll get my men ready….what? No. We Grey Wardens - defenders against Blights and darkspawn - are assigned to the Arling and need to remain to…secure the Grey Warden presence within Ferelden.

But, what of the darkspawn?

Oh, there will always be darkspawn to battle, but the Order may never be given an Arling ever again.

Wonderful. Fine. Just remain here…listening to the nobles babble on. Oh! And there is Mistress Woolsley, just waiting for me to help her count her coin.

Ah, yes, shutting up now…there's another noble spouting the oath. How many damned nobles are there, anyway?

He slipped again into his own thoughts, this time so deeply that Varel had to nudge him once the last noble had presented himself before the Arl (Jowan almost chuckled at that thought). Turning confused eyes to the Seneschal, Varel prompted the mage to mingle.

"Really?" Jowan whispered, casting concerned eyes to the horde of nobles milling about the Great Hall, Nathaniel, Lyna and Anders visible from their spots in the alcoves, watching the spectacle with varying degrees of humor. "Mingle?"

Letting out a great, pained sigh, Varel nodded. "You need them to see you as their Arl. Something other than the Commander of the Grey." And certainly something other than a mage. Those words were not said, although they were implied.

Something other than a mage…what else was he, truly, if not a mage?

Almost pouting, Jowan asked, "Can I make the others mingle too?"

Varel raised a steel gray brow, his gray eyes fixed upon the mage's face. "You are the Arl. For them, more importantly, you are their Commander."

Clapping his hands together once, sharply, Jowan grinned with triumph. "Good. Have them mingle, too!"

Feeling more than a bit smug at having forced his Wardens to mingle with the nobles, Jowan offered the other man a slight nod, and stepped down from the dais. To mingle.

Oh, yes. The Maker was having his great laugh now. Jowan was certain of it as he stood, nodding his dark head as the noblewoman before him - the sour faced Bann Esmerelle (really? What had she eaten to get her mouth as puckered as it was?) - regaled him with the need to rebuild the wealth of Amaranthine City, of assigning more guards to watch over the walls of the great port, and allow more imports to flow through.

Honestly, Jowan was only half listening. The woman obviously was full of her own self-importance and was more than happy to continue to speak. However, another of the nearby nobles, Bann Eddelbrek, if Jowan recalled correctly, interrupted with his own concerns.

Which, of course, were counter to Esmerelle's concerns, for they lay in the farmlands that produced more than half of crops that fed Ferelden. Farmlands that were now being devastated by darkspawn and other unknown creatures. And were in need of extra protection if they were to continue being productive.

Jowan was certain the conversation would have ended with blows had he not intervened quickly. At Varel's urging, he made a formal declaration that he would assign further patrols along the trade routes and farmlands. The city had its own barracks and, if the Bann felt there was a need for more guards to be added to the rosters, than she, as the Bann of the city, should make such arrangements. Esmerelle was not happy to learn that any additional soldiers would come from her coffers.

Eddelbrek, however, was very pleased with the proclamation, offering his heartfelt thanks over and over.

So, Jowan was feeling pretty good. After all, Esmerelle was Bann over the wealthiest portion of Amaranthine, and had the funds to secure more guards. Eddelbrek, however, was not as wealthy, much of his own coin going back into the land, and into the land of the farmers he served as administrator over. Additional coin would only become available once crops had been brought in and sold.

And that was not for several months yet.

Yes, Jowan was feeling very good. Rather smug, actually. The instruction Varel had been giving him on the Arling's matters had, indeed, sunk in.

He almost strutted as he continued to mingle among the nobles, his confidence boosted by what he saw as a very judicious decision.

That strut faltered when he came up to a blonde woman, her pretty face pinched with worry and concern as she pulled him aside, divulging news that he really wished he had been surprised to learn of.

This had been expected. After all, he had been part of the group that had…disposed of the former Arl. He still recalled Sorcha's face - bloodied and bruised - as she sank her blade deeply into the treacherous man's heart. Not really with joy, but…satisfaction.

He had meant to ask her about that, but had never gotten the chance to do so.

But he stood now, listening as the noblewoman explained what she had found, her features soft with sympathy for him, concern for herself. After all, divulging what she knew would place her in a great danger as well.

Great! There went his good mood! Offering the woman - Ser Tamra - his thanks, he went to Varel's side, asking him to have the nobles leave. Giving his Arl a quick, knowing nod, the seneschal ordered his men move the nobles out.

Jowan would have grinned at the seneschal's wording, had the current matter not been so serious.

"What's up?" Anders asked as he sauntered over to Jowan's side, Lyna close beside the mage, Nathaniel stalking from the sidelines.

"Oh, not much," Jowan quipped, inspecting his fingernails as the trio of wardens came up before him. "Just learned that there's a plot to kill me, is all."

"That is not a joking matter, Commander," Nathaniel sternly scolded, his dark gray eyes narrowing as he scowled at the mage. Lyna and Anders merely exchanged looks before focusing again upon their Commander.

"Oh, I know, I know," Jowan shrugged, looking up at the others. "It's just if I don't joke about it, I'll scream, maybe even pout a little. Trust me, screaming is something I can do very well. As well as pouting." He gestured toward his fellow mage. "Ask anyone who knew me from my days at the Circle. I think the term 'wuss' was tossed around a few times."

"What are you doing about it, then?" Anders asked, smirking and rolling his eyes at his fellow mage.

"I need to discuss it with Varel. Ser Tamra has some communications she's intercepted over the past few months. She is going to retrieve those and get them to us. We can proceed from there."

"Not much, then," Nathaniel frowned, his eyes thoughtful as he fixed his gaze upon Jowan. "But a start, at the very least."

Nodding, Jowan turned to lead his group from the Hall. "Yeah, at the very least." Turning to look over his shoulder, he asked. "Anyone hungry? I'm starved."