Thanks to Ygrain33, Ventisquear, JayColin and millelibri for your reviews for the last chapter. Sorry this one's been a while coming. I will give fair warning, though we don't make landfall until the next chapter-I'm going to mess with DAII continuity quite a bit.


Zevran Arainai had a good set of sea-legs, as he'd discovered during the several journeys he'd made for the Crows. He had wondered how Lhaine, child of the forest that he was, would fare upon the sea and was a bit surprised to find that the answer was very well. The Warden did not suffer in the least from sea-sickness, and if he was not gaining any weight on the limited ship's fare, he wasn't loosing it either. He also seemed to sleep better on board ship than at any time since Zevran had met him. When queried upon the subject a couple of mornings out, Lhaine had looked toward the horizon and shrugged.

"I can't hear the darkspawn here. I don't know whether they have tunnels beneath the water or not, but I can't hear them. It is such a relief!" His wheat-blond hair, down in the style he'd favored when among his people, tossed in the wind. "And it is so different here than any place I've ever been. So much sun, and wind!" The spring wind was too chill by far for Zevran's taste, but Lhaine did not seem to mind. He'd not bothered with a cloak and was wearing only breeches and one of the shirt and tunic combinations that Leliana had had made for him. "I've not had dreams about…the other either since coming on board."

"Well that's good then, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"How were you and Alistair getting along?"

An amused smile teased the corners of Lhaine's lips. "That's certainly personal! We managed a little something before I left, if you must know."

"That's good to hear. Details, please."

"It was better than I had expected and happened earlier than I had anticipated." Zevran found himself the subject of an arch green gaze. "And that is all the prurient information you will be getting out of me, lethallin."

The assassin sighed theatrically. "I agree out of the goodness of my heart to leave my little song-bird's nest and submit myself to extreme privation to accompany you to Kirkwall and you won't even tell me any dirty stories to pass the time? Tsssssk. It is a wonder I keep succumbing to the more generous impulses of my heart if they provide no more reward than this!"

"I have no doubt that you have sufficient dirty stories, not to mention memories, locked inside that head of yours to keep you amused for quite a while, Zevran Arainai," Lhaine said with a decided lack of sympathy, one golden eyebrow arched. "My feeble efforts would add nothing new to them."

"Ah, but it is not so much the quality of the content as the act of sharing that counts!"

"Zev." One word only, but the flatness of tone told Zevran he'd jested enough. So he changed the subject.

"Since you seem to have taken to the ocean like a cat takes to employment in a dairy, do your ancient writings say anything about Dalish sailors?"

Lhaine looked about at the bustling activity of the ship and shook his head. "Nothing that I have ever heard of, and I was a close listener to Hahren Paivel. Perhaps Marethari or Merrill may have heard such tales. All of the stories I heard are of our life on the land. There was never a sea story, nor do any of the Creators seem to hold specific sway over the ocean. You would expect at least one of them to be the designated deity of propitiation by sailors, if we were ever a sea-faring folk." A shadow darkened his face. "And apparently our halla do not fare well upon the water." He made a visible effort to repress that shadow. "The shemlen invaders came to us first upon ships, I believe. Perhaps if we had been sailors as well, we would have lasted longer. In any event, I wouldn't say it's something I'd care to do on a regular basis. But it is something interesting and new."

"I suspect you'd find it a deal more interesting if we were in heavy weather." They'd been blessed in that department, with fair weather and good wind so far.

Lhaine chuckled. "No doubt about that!" Then he wandered off to watch a sailor splice a rope.

Captain Aldwyn had been tasked with the escort duty for this journey as well, since he was acquainted with the nature of Lhaine's difficulty and Alistair did not want large numbers of people knowing it. He was a cool-headed and decisive commander and had hand-picked the dozen men accompanying them very carefully. The irony of humans feeling it an honor to escort and protect an elf was not lost upon either Lhaine or Zevran, but there it was. Every man in the escort was a seasoned veteran who had fought in the Battle of Denerim and each of them would have gladly laid down their lives for the Hero of Ferelden and the Blight Companion.

The captain of the Pride of Denerim, Captain Corus Maitland, had been recommended by Fergus Cousland as a man of discretion and reliability. Zevran understood that Maitland had been one of Bryce Cousland's trusted intermediaries in his Orlesian negotiations. He was an older man, perhaps getting close to retirement age judging by the silver in his hair, but he was still fit and energetic and ruled his crew with a firm hand.

Zevran did not know what the crew had been told besides the identities of their passengers, but for sailors they were exquisitely polite to both himself and Lhaine, and would happily answer any questions the Warden had about the operation of the ship. Lhaine had a lot of those, particularly about sailors' knots and rigging, though he tried to reserve his inquiries for times when the crew wasn't busy. There were apparently some similarities between ship rigging and what was done with the sails upon the aravels. The sailors in turn were very intrigued by the idea of the landships and asked Lhaine many questions in turn, some of which required the use of paper and charcoal for diagrams. It was amusing to see the scruffy ring of sailors surrounding the Dalish, pointing at his drawings and talking among themselves about the various features of the aravels. So long as Zevran was within eyesight, Lhaine seemed to be relaxed enough among the men. The Antivan hoped that it was a hopeful sign for the future.

Zevran had visited Kirkwall once before. He did not think that Lhaine would enjoy his stay there, what with all the visible reminders of the Tevinter Imperium's past glories, glories built at least in part upon the blood and bodies of the Dalish. So an enjoyable interlude before they made landfall was a welcome thing.


Passage from Denerim to Kirkwall was an eight-day voyage, barring complications. And there were no complications until they were but a day out from the City of Chains. The lookout up in the crow's nest called "Sail ahoy!" Sometime later he elaborated "Ship closing fast, cap'n! And she's flying no flag!" The Pride's decks became a hive of activity.

"Crack on all sail!" Maitland called. Lhaine went up onto the stern castle and looked to the rear. The other vessel was easily enough seen by his keen eyes-smaller, rakish, obviously more swift that the larger Pride. Her deck looked to be crowded with men and he caught the twinkle of weapons among them.

"Raider," Maitland said, spyglass in hand, appearing at Lhaine's shoulder. "The Maker send them straight to the bottom! We won't outrun her. They've gotten big stones to hit us this close to Kirkwall."

"What will they do?" Lhaine asked. The captain's expression was grim.

"They'll try to take this ship, my lord, and kill or impress everyone on it."

Lhaine gave the captain a long look, then said calmly, "My men and I are at your disposal, captain. We'll armor up."

Corus Maitland laughed, and it was a short, ugly sound. "My thanks for that, Warden! Let's hope the Hero of Ferelden is too big a bite for them!"


Preparations within the cabin were quiet for the most part. It was hardly the first time Zevran and Lhaine had helped each other arm and long practice made the sequence of pieces donned and straps buckled almost automatic.

"It's times like these that I wish Morrigan were still here," Lhaine commented, giving Zevran's pauldron a gentle tug to seat it.

"Almost I agree with you, my friend," Zevran said, twisting Lhaine's left elbow cop just a bit situate it better. "But since she is not…" The two rogues opened a chest they'd brought with them, opened a fabric roll of pockets containing small glass flasks. There were several different colors of the flasks and each type was divided equally between the two men.

"I've got some more fire stone, but there's no time…" Lhaine said regretfully.

"We shall have to make do. Why is it we always have more acid flasks than anything else?" Zevran said irritably, then gave Lhaine a look of urgency. "Listen my friend-I know you know how to swim. But this is the ocean, not a lake or river and even if dragonbone isn't as heavy as steel or silverite, it will still drag you down. Promise me you'll stay on the ship?"

"I have no intention of going for a swim, Zevran. Promise you'll do the same?"

"That is a promise I will gladly make!" The assassin placed his hand upon Lhaine's shoulder. "Are you going to be all right with this?"

Quizzical green eyes met his. "What do you mean?"

"I know you've fought darkspawn since Denerim. But these are shems."

Lhaine's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Do you know, I never even considered that? Perhaps that is a good sign. I honestly don't know, Zevran. I suppose we will have to wait and see. Keep an eye on me, will you?"

"Always. It's such an aesthetic pleasure, after all."

A dragonbone-gauntleted hand made swift, sharp, sudden contact with Zevran's drakeskin-skirted rear. He yelped more in surprise than hurt. Only Lhaine could get a surprise blow like that in on him. Then he grinned, his amber eyes twinkling.

"Ummmmm. You always hurt me so good, my friend."

Lhaine chuckled, shook his head, then buckled his swords on and slung his quiver over his shoulder. "Let's go."


In his many years on the ocean, Captain Maitland had fought raiders attempting to seize his ship twice. Both times he'd been successful, mostly because he prepared for the possibility and drilled for it. Every man in his crew possessed a crossbow and possessed a rudimentary knowledge of how to use it. As the raider vessel drew abreast of them, she was greeted by a barrage of bolts from those of the crew who could be spared from managing the sails. The helmsman steered the ship from behind a large wall shield, since he was often a target of opportunity.

Captain Aldwyn's men also had crossbows and they added their own bolts to the barrage. The escort captain was a strict disciplinarian and kept his men in armor at all times, so they had not needed to prepare.

The Warden and his companion came out of their cabin armored, with bows in hand. He looked up at Maitland's helmsman, crouching behind the wall shield, then over at the enemy stern castle, raised his bow and drew. Unused to the pitching motion of the two ships, his first shot missed. But the second one took the raider helmsman in the chest. He fell and the ship veered away a little until another raider seized the wheel at the bottom, interposing it as a barrier between himself and the Warden's arrows. His Antivan companion was firing into the massed bodies at the rail of the other vessel.

Maitland, seeing that the two arrows the Warden had shot had been magical fire arrows, cupped his hands and bellowed down. "No fire, Warden! Not yet, at least!" The Warden looked back up at him and nodded acknowledgement, then began shooting again with regular arrows. The raiders had a few archers among them and scattered arrows began skipping among the crew. One bounced off the Warden's armored chest. He did not deign to acknowledge it, continuing to draw and release as smoothly as if he were hunting deer in the forest. And perhaps he'd shot from a wind-tossed tree a time or two, for as time went on, his arrows were finding more targets. There were a significant number of raiders being dragged away from the rail, but the damage done was not sufficient to dissuade the raider captain, who, behind his crew could be heard haranguing them on.

"They must have quite the cargo, mates, to be putting up such a fight! Have at 'em!" The raider vessel was abreast of them now, and veered sharply so that the two ships collided. Both decks lurched beneath their crews' feet as contact was made and lines with grapnels began snaking out from the other ship, seeking to lash the two together. Aldwyn's soldiers began changing weapons to sword and shield, anticipating the rush over the rail, while Maitland bellowed at his crew to keep shooting.

The raider ship, while smaller, was not as heavily laden as the Pride, which was carrying a full cargo. So the deck of the attacking vessel was only marginally lower, not a great obstacle for the pirates. What was the obstacle was the shield wall that met their initial forward rush. Raiders against merchant sea-men was one thing. Unarmored, undisciplined raiders against armored, disciplined, elite troops was quite another.

The Warden, still on the stern castle, was now lobbing grenades onto the ship. Acid, cold, lightning and something Maitland suspected might be soul-rot coalesced over the packed bodies of the boarding party. The Warden's compatriot was doing the same from forward. Between the two of them, they were covering most of the crew of the raider vessel. Men started dropping in their tracks. The raider captain was now screeching imprecations in what sounded like Rivaini, for his men were losing appetite for the fight and were beginning to back off.

The Warden suddenly dashed down onto the deck. Drawing his swords, he vaulted over the conjoined rails onto the other ship.

Maitland could hear Aldwyn cursing, even over the din of battle.

"Follow him, damn your eyes! The King will kill us if aught happens to the Warden while in our care!" The soldiers surged forward, over the rail. Some of Maitland's men started to follow; then paused, looking to their captain for direction.

"Go on!" the merchant captain bellowed, realizing that they actually stood a chance of taking the raider ship, not just beating her off. Sailors began to pour over the rail.

On the main deck of the raider ship, Lhaine Mahariel was surrounded by foes, not that it mattered. The uncanny, glowing blue blade that had slain the Archdemon and his off-hand dragonbone sword were making short work of the raiders. Maitland saw the elf spin full circle, his two swords opening throats and gaining him space at the same time. The raider crew, unwilling as they might be to face those deadly blades, found themselves caught in a terrible quandary. The battle had been brought to them and they had no choice but to stand and fight. Piracy was a hanging offense on the Waking Sea.

And while Corus Maitland could have done without the raider attack, he had to admit that the opportunity to see the Hero of Ferelden in action was almost worth it. Mahariel was carving his way across the deck, leaving carnage in his wake. His elven companion Zevran was nowhere to be seen-until he suddenly materialized out of thin air behind the raider captain, plunging sword and dagger into his back, then cutting his throat in almost the same, fluid motion. He is a Crow, Maitland recollected being told, a Crow who walked away and lived to tell the tale. The captain died without even seeing his killer and with his demise, the fight went out of the crew. Some threw down weapons and sued for mercy, but it was not granted. Captain Aldwyn had grown up in Denerim with sea-faring kin and apparently knew all too well about the punishment pirates merited. The crew was slain to the last man.

When the furor of battle died away, the Warden was left in a circle of slain foes. Maitland saw him look about with an almost puzzled expression for a moment, before he seemed to come back to himself, flicking the two swords in a practiced manner that cleared some of the gore from the blades. His companion approached him cautiously and they bent their heads close together conferring about something. Mahariel then lifted his, looked about, and seeing Maitland watching, waved to the merchant captain.

"What shall we do now, Captain?" he called.

"Check below decks, make sure none of them are hiding, Warden. I'll send people over to secure the ship." The Dalish nodded and then he and his escort headed down the hatchway.


Ariston DeMarchais's family hailed originally from Orlais, as did several of Kirkwall's most noble houses. But he was a Marcher through and through, which was why he had protested so vociferously about being sent to spend a couple of years in Orlais to academy, to finish his education and put some polish on.

I hope you're happy now, Father, he thought, though it was more with trenchant black humor than dislike. Ariston, whose mother had died birthing him, did in fact love his father Aristede very much. Aristede had never re-married after his wife's death and aside from Aristede's nurse Menara, the two had led a thoroughly bachelor existence. Ariston had to admit that his Orlais sojourn had given him some uncommon education in matters other than correct diction and advanced sums. He wasn't entirely sure his father would have approved of some of it, though Aristede did have a regular lady he visited at the Blooming Rose.

Now it looked as if DeMarchais Senior would not have a chance to approve or disapprove. Ariston, who had led a very sheltered existence, armored with his name and station against life's unpleasantries, had experienced first-hand what happened during a raider attack when his ship was accosted upon his journey home. The images of bloodshed and screams of the crew as they were cut down would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

The raiders had taken everything of value off of the ship before scuttling it, including Ariston, who had been very quick to inform them of his name and station. Growing up in the Marches he knew how the game was played. The raider captain, whose name was Ricoll, was very pleased to have him.

"We'll get twice as much as the rest of the cargo combined is worth for this one," he had declared, smiling expansively. "Put him in the slave-cage in the hold."

And there Ariston had spent the last two weeks, as the raider looked for one last vessel to hit, to fill his hold completely. He stank so badly that he almost hated himself and if there had been some way to step outside his body and go to the other end of the hold, he would have availed himself of it to avoid the stench. He had to relieve himself in a bucket, which was emptied whenever someone thought of it and has fed on weevil-ridden ship's biscuit and brackish fresh water twice a day. His complaints about conditions to Ricoll had been met with laughter.

"Oh, you won't die, pretty boy! I'll make sure of that! And if you look a bit haggard when your daddy gets you back, then all the better-that will make the rest of them that much quicker to pay if their precious sprouts get taken."

Ariston couldn't deny the rather brutal logic of that. He made no effort to complain again, and set himself to endure his captivity, fighting the boredom by going over lessons and sums in his mind, listening intently to what crumbs of information filtered down from above.

"Ship ahoy! And she looks like a fat one, lads!" should have caused horror in him, knowing the fate that awaited the poor merchantman, but what he primarily felt was relief. If this prize was large enough, then perhaps Ricoll would finally send word to Kirkwall to open the ransom negotiations and his torment would end.

It was odd, listening to the attack from below decks. He could see figures scurrying about around the hatchway and a couple of sailors came down to fetch some bundles of bolts and arrow up to the deck. As they closed with the ship, Ricoll's voice could be heard, calling encouragement. The collision of the two vessels knocked Ariston off of his feet. The raiders began screaming their battle cries, and the young nobleman assumed they were making their way onto the other ship. Then the tenor of those cries changed, became fearful. There were what sounded like repeated explosions and an odd ripple of cold air reached Ariston. He shivered. Ricoll was cursing, trying to chivvy the men forward from the sound of things.

Then came the impact of other feet landing on the deck. Maker! Ariston thought, hope beginning to blossom within him, Is the biter being bit? More feet followed and there was now no doubt-the raiders were being attacked themselves. Ariston could hear calls for mercy and was rather savagely pleased when they seemed to be disregarded. Silence fell upon the deck.

"What shall we do now, Captain?" he heard an oddly accented voice call from above. Whoever the voice was addressing made reply, but it was muffled by distance. Then Ariston heard footsteps descending down the stairs.

The person in the lead was short and slight-a woman perhaps, though she seemed very narrow-hipped. She was clad in what looked like some very expensive dragonbone armor and a winged helm with a nasal that shadowed her face. An elf, oddly enough armed and armored followed at her back, and then some heavily armored fighters. She was wielding two long swords, one of which glowed blue in the dim light. Her eye fell upon him.

"Spread out, search the hold," one of the fighters said, a man with a fancier tabard than the rest and the men came down and began doing just that, poking about and moving cargo to be certain there were no raiders hidden. The woman simply cocked her head and looked at Ariston. Then the voice with the strange accent he'd heard up above issued from her mouth and he realized that this must be a male elf as well.

"Who are you and why are you caged?"

Ariston lifted his chin. "My name, serah, is Ariston DeMarchais. I was returning from college in Orlais to my home in Kirkwall when my ship was taken by these raiders. They slew the crew to the last man and were holding me for ransom. They intended to take one more vessel before sending word to my father to open the negotiations."

"You're a nobleman, then?"

"Yes, of course! Everyone in Kirkwall knows of the house of DeMarchais!"

"We're not from Kirkwall." Looking more closely at the soldiers, Ariston could see that they were wearing the royal arms of Ferelden. "Would you would like to be out of there?" the elf's tenor voice inquired, smooth as honey.

"Maker, yes!"

The elf pulled a clean cloth from his belt-pouch and commenced wiping his swords, which were caked with blood, as was his armor. As each one was cleaned, it was sheathed.

"Would you mind, Zev?" he asked politely, pulling off his gauntlets and offering them to his fellow elf, who took them without comment. He then rummaged in the belt pouch once more, pulling out a small leather wallet. Pulling something out from the wallet, he came over and began probing the lock of Ariston's cell, which gave way almost immediately.

"There you are," the elf said. "Are you injured, ser?"

"No, but I-" Ariston found himself speaking to empty air. The elf and his companion were already going back up the hatchway.


When he made his own way out onto the deck, squinting against the sunlight which seemed so very bright after his time in near-darkness, Ariston found sailors busy tossing raider corpses over the side. The sailors were obviously from the large Fereldan merchanter the raider was lashed to. Other sailors were aloft in the rigging of both ships, shortening sail and bringing the vessels under control. The two elves were already back on board the other ship, passing out what looked to be healing draughts to injured sailors.

One of the sailors approached with a smile. "We was told you weren't a raider, ser, and that we shouldn't kill you. Would you like to go across to our ship? I think the captain would like to have a word with you." When Ariston nodded, the man followed at his elbow. He had the effrontery to lay hands upon Ariston's person, giving him a leg up over the rail, but the young nobleman couldn't find it in him to object at the familiarity. Despite his efforts to keep himself fit by pacing the confines of his cage, he was nonetheless weaker than he'd been before his captivity.

There was an older man in a fine broadcloth coat standing mid-deck shouting orders to the men in the rigging. Ariston made his way slowly over and waited until the man was done to address him.

"Serah, you have my thanks for your timely rescue. I am Ariston DeMarchais."

The captain's graying eyebrow lifted. "DeMarchais, is it? I've met your father Aristede a couple of times socially in Kirkwall. Corus Maitland of the Pride of Denerim."

"Serah," Ariston said, inclining his head politely. Captain Maitland gave him a look-over.

"We're a day out from Kirkwall, messire. We should be putting in tomorrow afternoon or early evening, depending upon the wind. I think we can spare enough fresh water for a hot sponge bath, if nothing else. And my mate is close to your size. I'll see if he has some clean clothes he could lend you. You'll be bunking with me. A hammock, but it's only for the one night, so you should survive."

"I appreciate your consideration but do not wish to discommode you, serah. Have you no other cabin?"

Maitland shook his head. "The Pride has only one passenger cabin, my lord, and it's booked by that gentleman over there," he said, indicating the elf in the dragonbone armor. Seeing the young lord's affronted look, his brows drew down and his voice grew chill. "And since this is a Fereldan ship, commissioned by the King of Ferelden to carry the Hero of Ferelden to Kirkwall, my crew and I will not be turning him out for you."

Stunned, Ariston looked in that direction once more, noting for the first time the conjoined silver Warden griffons upon the elf's armor. His helm was off, his blonde hair lifting in the breeze and the tracery of Dalish tattoos could be seen upon his face. Ariston remembered the glowing blue sword and gulped.

"That's…that's really…"

Seeing Ariston's astonishment, Captain Maitland's expression shifted from disapproval to wry amusement. "Yes, that's Lhaine Mahariel. Of all the ships on the Waking Sea that your raider captain could have picked to attack, he chose ours. You've been living quite the adventure, my lord. Captured by raiders and held for ransom, rescued by the Hero of Ferelden…you'll be dining out on this one for the rest of the season!"