Many thanks to our fantastic beta reader, ShebasDawn!


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Chapter Twelve: Night of the Moon

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"I have committed a most egregious crime, amour."

Artana raised an eyebrow as she turned to regard Ives. "And of the many, to which one do you refer?"

Ives put a hand to his heart and gasped dramatically. "Amour! How could you send such a barb towards me so early in the day?"

Her eyes flickered to their right, where the sun had just finished rising above the hills in the distance. Around them the Fields of Ghislain stretched in eternal silence, as if the blood of the Fallen had put an eternal spell of calm on them. They'd heard neither the song of birds nor the rustle of smaller creatures since hitting the boundaries of the FIelds after leaving Arlesans before the sun was more than a prediction. "It was not I who brought up the topic of your crimes," she pointed out.

"Ah, true." He chuckled, glad that the ice between them had thawed enough for him to venture into such a conversation. "Well, it is surely not the kiss I gave you yesterday, hmm?"

A delicious hint of color darkened the pallor of her cheeks as she turned her gaze forward. "I... would not call that a crime. Far too public," she added, though without the vehemence of a true reprimand, "but not a crime."

He nudged his mount, the feisty stallion they'd picked up Arlesans, a bit closer to Assan, a direction the stallion took quite readily - a nice change of pace for Ives. "Hmm, is that a bit of pink I see? Should I chase it away with another kiss?" He reached out and lightly touched her face, able to compensate for the movement of the horses only because of the slow pace that had been set for while they traveled in the dark. "Please, say oui."

She straightened, effectively taking her face out of his reach for the moment. "This is not the time. Nor was it then."

With a grin, he let her retreat for the moment, grateful to have gotten the victory of a blush from her - a hard-won triumph, indeed. After the nerve-wracking lunch of wine and verbal parrying he'd had with Martin the previous day, he'd returned to the Inn and collapsed into bed, sleeping away the lingering effects of the wine and the odd thoughts that had accompanied it before rising with a wince to fetch Isabeau.

Artana and Jean had taken care of the resupply while Ives had accompanied Isabeau back to the smith. A few empty but effective compliments later, bolstered by some absolutely stunning smiles and adorable little curtsies from Isabeau, and they had walked out with her armor and quite a bit more coin than Ives had anticipated, an outcome which improved his mood greatly. As a result, when he'd been able to give money back to Artana that she'd assumed was gone forever, earning a grudging smile from his Princess, he couldn't help but take her in his arms and indulge in a rather public display of his affection. Such a process was generally done over her protests but to her secret delight, and the heightened color on her pale cheeks merely added to her loveliness.

"Ah lala, but the dance of color on your face is ever the most irresistible of sights," he said with an impish grin. "And a reward more sweet I cannot imagine."

"The sun is up. We should pick up the pace," she said, though the blush of red hadn't completely fled her face. "Now that we can see the ground, so can the horses. It's a long way to Hunter Fell."

He sobered, the reminder that time was not on their side drawing his attention more to her pallor than he liked. He preferred to think of the beauty of her amber eyes as they surveyed their surroundings, the strength of her lithe body as she twisted to check on the rest of the party behind them, the sweep of her midnight hair as it cascaded down her back and along Assan's side. None of that vision of loveliness was aided by the spectre of death that hovered over her. Shaking his head as he tried to dismiss the morbid thoughts, he replied, "Oui, that it is." He sighed as he looked north, trying to see beyond the expanse of the Fields and to the town that was no more than a waypost on the way to their true destination. "Far too long."

"I will endure," she said simply, and the hushed statement encapsulated the whole of her: her strength, her determination, her sheer will which would not let her die with business unfinished. She had promised both Ives and his brother that they would get a proper farewell from her before she died. "I must."

"I know," he replied, all hints of his previous mischief dissipated. "And you never break a promise, amour."

"Only once."

Mentally he cursed himself, even as he reached out to lay his hand on her arm. He wasn't sure what he could say to that, other than to realize that the ghost of memory that had been stirred before Arlesans lingered. "Livilla was right. Life is too precious for regret."

She jerked her her arm away from his touch. "Perhaps, but time is short." Her legs flexed as she nudged Assan into a faster walk, the kind that the horses could maintain for hours as long as care was taken to rest them regularly. "I cannot forget my crimes, though, nor should I."

Caught a trifle off-guard, Ives urged his horse into the faster pace, quickly catching up with her. "Amour-" he began, wanting to protest her self-condemnation, but her curt gesture cut him off.

"Enough. I do not want to dwell on the past, not when I am looking to secure my future."

He subsided, knowing that she would not budge on the matter, not after a statement like that. Still, seeking an opportunity to lighten the mood, he cleared his throat and put on a smile. "Ah, but do you not wish to know the nature of my most heinous crime which I mentioned earlier?"

The gaze she turned on him still held more of sadness than determination, but at least his smile invited a return of her raised brow. "Since it seems you will not let me not inquire, I suppose I will do so."

The grin turned into a more gentle smile. "I would never force you to inquire, but... Ah, in this case, perhaps I will. My crime, you see, involves you."

That earned him a tug at the corner of her lips. "Now you are blaming me for it?"

He felt more heartened with each raised brow, each tug of her lips, and each blush of her cheeks. Though he did not begrudge Jean his time with her - well, most of the time, knowing his brother's needs as well as he did - Ives yet desired her attention as well. He'd never met a woman such as her before, certainly not in Orlais, and he'd been as unable to resist her unique nature and remarkable strength as Jean had been. Granted, a healthy dose of lust had gone into his initial decision to approach Artana, but encountering Jean while on his way to meet her and learning that his brother had had the same goal in mind as Ives had...

The smile stayed in place, but it took an effort. "Ah, lala, who else can I blame for this particular crime?" So saying, he allowed his eyes to again sweep over her form. "A crime most terrible."

She sighed. "Out with it."

Chuckling, he leaned over as best as he could given the increased pace of their horses. "The crime... I have not yet told you today how your beauty takes my breath away with but the merest glance!"

And again, a measure of victory was his as her cheeks warmed yet again. "We have a lot of ground to make up. Let's pick up the pace."

As she nudged Assan forward yet again, he allowed her to move ahead of him. He didn't want to push so hard that she pushed back, driving them apart. Over the years, he had come to appreciate the fact that in his Dalish Princess, the reticence concealed a deep passion in which she rarely let herself indulge. Still, he had made progress towards once more gracing her bed... he hoped. Oh, how he hoped.

A boisterous laugh drew his attention to those riding behind him. Twisting in his saddle, he saw that Jean was leaning back as he indulged in that loud, pure expression of amusement that his brother was so well known for back in Val Royeaux. More interestingly, Ives saw Isabeau's expression, catching the hint of quiet joy in her face as she watched him. Though she wiped it clean when a smiling Jean turned to face her again, it made an impression on Ives, and the wheels began to turn in his head. It was a thought on the edge of forming, without words, in his mind as he looked forward to where Artana rode ahead of them, the wind whipping her hair.

Perhaps...

.~^~.

The next few days passed rather uneventfully, though on occasion Artana would invite Jean to take some time to explore nearby dried riverbeds. Though on the surface this didn't affect Ives, inside the bard pined a little more each time her eyes landed on him before sliding to his brother for the invitation. He continued his patient campaign, however, of lavishing her with adoration and kisses as she allowed, and each time, her gaze lingered longer before Jean was selected for the explorations.

Late during what they hoped would be the last night on the plains before reaching Hunter Fell, Ives sighed as settled himself into his bedroll following his watch. By all rights, he should have been pleased at the progress that had been made since Arlesans, and not only with Artana, though that particular thorn of unrequited longing seemed almost to have been removed from his side. Artana had made a point of demanding a kiss from him when she had woken him to take over her watch - a kiss that had led to a bit more given how much of her cool skin was accessible due to the design of her armor - and when he had pleaded to be allowed back to her good graces in between the peppering of kisses on her face and neck, she had smiled and whispered, "When there is a bed to be had."

Never had he wanted a return to civilization more than that moment, but she had left him pining softly to find her bedroll and leave him to his watch.

Admittedly, he was quite distracted during it. Usually he was quite alert, though it was not bandits he feared appearing from the dark, but rather an obsessive sociopath who thought that severed thumbs were a thoughtful gift of regard. Now... well, now, he found himself glancing to where Artana lay on the ground, fighting the urge to go to her and try to convince her that a bedroll in a dry riverbed should be considered close enough for their purposes.

When the time came to wake Jean, he was in a peculiarly heightened state of mind. Even as his brother snorted and rose, sword in hand, to take over the watch, Ives lay down with the certainty that rest would be impossible for him this night. Try as he might to fall into slumber, it remained just out of reach, until he finally turned over with a sigh and opened his eyes.

And saw Isabeau rise from her bedroll.

Curious, he remained still, trusting to the dark to hide his curiosity as he watched her stand, carefully ready herself to leave, then grab her arms and armor and walk from the camp, glancing at Jean as she did so. Even more curious, Jean nodded at her, then copied her actions, prepping himself for departure before taking his belongings and following her.

Slowly Ives sat up. This was, obviously, a situation he had to investigate, even if he sadly acknowledged that the presence of arms and armor precluded any of the more interesting reasons for such clandestine behavior. With a stealth gained from many years of practice, he rose and made his way after them.

He found them not too distant from the camp, standing close to one another. Ducking to keep his body close to the tip of the rise which kept them hidden from view of the camp, his mind raced with possibilities as he crept close enough to overhear what they said to each other. The earliest hints of dawn began to lighten the air around him as he did so, enough so that he knew he had to be cautious of being seen, but also so that he could observe them from a greater distance.

"I wish it were not so tight," he heard Jean rumble.

Ah, context is so very vital to a statement such as that, Ives thought with a smirk.

Sadly, in his next breath, Jean dashed all hopes for excitement in the pre-dawn light. "The blacksmith must have replaced this strap but not the other one."

Armor. How boring. With a sigh, he settled himself into a comfortable position, all hopes of something Orlesian dashed, but stuck for it now since leaving at this point would likely attract undue attention.

As he watched, Jean tugged at one of Isabeau's shoulders, pulling her into him. A light gasp rang in the cold morning air as she rocked on her feet, her back clanging against his chest. "Oh, sorry, I wasn't expecting that." She cleared her throat as she regained her footing. "It wasn't this bad yesterday."

Jean chuckled. "It is a bit colder this morning. Perhaps that is having an effect."

"Y-yes, that must be it." Again she was rocked on her feet as Jean pulled at the fittings of her armor, though this time she accommodated the motion by simply scooting her feet back towards Jean. "I'm glad Ives didn't talk the smith into, ah, altering my armor, then."

Ives wasn't surprised when Jean clammed up at that statement, given the details of the conversation where an alternate design for Isabeau's armor had been raised. What did catch him off guard was the way that Jean's hands came to a rest on Isabeau's shoulders, accompanied by a gentle smile on his brother's face that Ives had only seen in the presence of two women - neither of them Isabeau. Ah, lala, the hummingbird has found a place to land this morning, non?

Sadly, it was not to be. Even as Jean's head began to dip forward - a move Ives recognized from the many times Jean had planted a kiss on the top of Cateline's head during their years of marriage - he watched as his brother drew back abruptly and frowned. With a shake of his head, Jean removed his hands from Isabeau and took a step back. "There, that should be secure now." Quickly arranging his sword and shield, he nodded to Isabeau. "Shall we, sister?"

As they began to spar, Ives allowed himself an audible, if subdued, sigh of frustration as he used the sound of their blades to cover his retreat back to camp. My dear, sainted brother, sometimes you are simply too noble for your own good.

.~^~.

Hunter Fell drew closer with every hour. There was a bit more snap in everyone's movements, and each pause taken to rest the horses as they got closer to their destination seemed longer than on other days, despite the fact they were the same length as on previous days. Though it took until the sky adapted the faint pink and orange of the coming sunset to bring the town in sight, this time they did not stop to rest the horses, choosing instead to press on through - a decision possibly aided by Ives' pleading look sent to Artana as he mouthed the word bed to her. Though no smile crossed her face, she did roll her eyes in a manner he recognized as affectionate, and kept going.

They reached the outskirts of the sprawling town just as the sunset was truly getting spectacular with a riotous melange of orange and pink spreading across the sky. In the distance, the full moon could be seen above the horizon, its unchanging face calm and serene and clearly no reflection of Ives' internal state of giddy anticipation. It had, after all, been a long time.

Still, he managed to restrain himself as they walked their horses down the main street. Peripherally, he knew something was... off, but he was so eager to reach the inn and the long-promised bed within that he tried to dismiss his rising disquiet. So what if there were no people walking on the streets in this fine, balmy weather of the Northern Orlesian fall? So what if a particularly noxious weed seemed to be nailed with iron onto every building? So what if every window appeared to be boarded up? So what if... if...

Ives heaved a great sigh. The hummingbird, it seemed, would flutter out of his grasp yet another night. "A bit... empty, no, amour?"

Artana nodded grimly. "We will go to the inn first. If it is closed, we will keep looking until we find someone who will talk with us." Her hands had already found her bow and strung it, holding it at the ready as her knees guided Assan towards the largest building in the small town square.

"What are those awful smelling plants?" Isabeau asked curiously. Ives noted with approval that both of the younger women had brought their own weapons to bear and appeared to be on high alert as they moved through the eerily deserted town.

"Ragwort," Artana answered.

"Why on Thedas would they have put it on every building?"

Artana didn't answer, though she did exchange a glance with Ives, whose crossbow was now also out and ready with a bolt set in place. "We will find out soon enough, I hope," was all she said, but Ives nodded grimly and glanced back at Jean, feeling better when he noticed that the man already put his helmet on and was settling his sword and shield into place. Out of the corner of his eye, Ives saw Livilla's staff abruptly twitch, and light began to emanate from it, filling the darkening world around them with a gleam that chased away the shadows.

Granted, only peasants would believe that ragwort actually repels the beasts, he mused, but then, if you're desperate enough...

As if on cue, a wolf's howl rose above the town, and Artana stiffened. "Faster." With a nck-nck to Assan and the urging of her knees, she led them in a short gallop to the large building beckoning to them at the edge of the square: the only building, Ives noted, that had a tall fence built around it - one that seemed recent in origin.

The fence opened as they reached it, allowing them to squeeze in one by one. Another howl worshipped the moon as Jean, the last of them, squeezed through the gate. Ives turned in time to see Ebony, eyes wide, lose several strands of hair from his tail as a group of five townsmen slammed the gate shut behind them and heaved a huge bar of wood into place. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light that came from torches and lamps spread throughout the courtyard of the inn, he noticed that all the people around them were men, each with a makeshift weapon of some kind.

"Pitchforks and scythes... You are brave to fight this foe with such weapons." Artana, at the lead, was clearly surveying the crowd.

"Desperate, more like," one of the men said to her, though he had an old sword tucked into his belt. Ives wondered when it had last seen the light of day before the recent troubles had begun. The man who had spoken stepped forward, his weary eyes taking in the mix of armor and arms with a single glance before settling on Isabeau, the only one among them who had the griffon on her armor since Jean had elected to travel in his old Chevalier plate. "You... You're Wardens?"

Artana nodded. "I am Warden-Commander Artana Mahariel. We are traveling north on Grey Warden business."

Shifting from foot to foot, the man nodded hesitantly. He looked around the faces of the men, all of them pinched and worn, then back to Artana. "Ah, my Lady... I wish I could welcome you with something a bit more appropriate to your station, but-"

"How long have the werewolves been plaguing you?" Artana asked calmly, as if she had inquired about the weather.

Ives heard Isabeau gasp as the man grimaced. "Tonight'll be the third full moon since the first one appeared. We don't lose nearly so many as we did that first month, but..." His face grew grim as his voice trailed away. After a moment's silence, he shrugged and looked around him. "Well... Each night is a battle, o' course. We could sure use your help, even if only for tonight."

The bard exchanged a glance with Jean and found a frown on his brother's face that matched his own. Technically, they owed these people nothing, of course, and according to Grey Warden protocol, they should not allow themselves to be drawn into any conflict which might endanger the mission which they had undertaken. Technically.

Before either one of the twins could open their mouths, however, Isabeau asked, "We are going to help them, aren't we, Commander?"

Artana nodded. "We will slay the beasts," she promised.

"Amour," Jean and Ives said simultaneously, though only Ives continued when Artana turned to look at them. "Perhaps this is one plight we'd be better off ignoring?"

"Werewolves are a burden of the forest. I am taking this initiative as Elvhen, not as a Warden. I do not think the Wardens would frown too much upon taking action in this situation, either." Her decision made, she turned back to the man standing in front of them. "We will need some aid, particularly at first since I presume there will be an initial rush to overwhelm us. I cannot promise that all your people will survive the night." Another howl rose, joined quickly by a second, as if to underscore the dangers that awaited them. Artana glanced up at the sky, noting that the night was now a pure, rich indigo dotted with stars. "We will end this curse. The stars are to be enjoyed, not feared."

Ives took a deep breath as Artana dismounted and began moving among the humans, asking questions about their supplies, the fence around the inn and the compound it created, and details of the town's layout. He left his saddle with a certain resignation, since he surmised it would take a while to develop a battle plan. The clanking behind told him Jean had followed suit, and he held the horse's reins as he went to Livilla's side and held out a hand for her. "Would you like some help, ma chèrie?"

For a moment she hesitated, light reflecting off of her eye in the depths of her hood. He wondered when she had pulled it up, but it was clear she was a bit intimidated by the sudden crowd. When her hand landed in his, he felt it tremble slightly. He made a point to arrange it so that when she dismounted, she was very close to him, allowing him a quiet moment with her even amidst the crowd. "Ah, there is no reason to worry, chèrie. I am here, non?" He smiled at her in encouragement, and this close he could easily see her face as her lips compressed together.

After a moment, the trembling stopped and she took a deep breath. With a small shove that sent him towards Artana, she said, "Go. The Commander needs you."

"Oui," he said with a wink. He walked to where Artana stood, joining Jean next to her as Artana asked the man - who turned out to be the mayor - question after question. The brothers' eyes met for a weighty moment, particularly when the inquiry of 'how many' got a confused answer that ran from a dozen to 'hundreds'. It was safe to say that the answer likely lay somewhere in the middle of those extremes, but either way, it pointed to a long night.

A night, sadly, in which the hummingbird was likely be neglected yet again, the flower's sweet nectar untasted. Ah, alas, Fate is by far my most cruel Mistress!

.~^~.

The second wave of enemies ended with a sword thrust, Jean's strong arm enough to drive the point of his well-maintained sword into the heart of the beast before it could finish climbing over the barricade. With a sigh, the misshapen werewolf slid off the blade and joined the pile of his dead fellows in front of the barricade that had been erected in addition to the fence around the inn. Jean took a step back, breathing heavily.

Ives sympathized with him: fighting for any extended length of time in full plate armor was a misery he himself never wished to experience. On the tail end of that thought, he looked to Isabeau, a bit worried since it was the first combat since her collapse, but she seemed to be doing a bit better than Jean. He found the reason why when he turned to Livilla and found her gaze locked on Isabeau and her lone eye dimming from white to black. A little clandestine help, hmm? As he watched, though, the mage turned to Jean, and her eye flared white.

Jean stiffened with a gasp, but by the time Livilla's eye dimmed, he was definitely breathing easier and seemed ready for the next round.

A howl drew attention back to the darkness beyond the hasty barricade that they'd thrown together with the help of the townsfolk, and Ives reflexively glanced down to where he'd hidden the daggers gifted him by Martin. He'd certainly prefer to not need them, but he knew at least twenty werewolves and wolves lay dead out in the square, riddled with Artana's arrows or scorched with Livilla's magic, and nearly as many were in the pile in front of the barricade downed by crossbow bolt or blade. He might not have the luxury of avoiding close combat, especially since not even Livilla could both attack and heal without rest herself, even if he still hadn't seen her use lyrium - or even knew if she had any.

Still, if there were yet more howls out there, it meant that the alpha had not shown his muzzle yet. A sneaking suspicion began to grow, and he looked at Artana to see the same grim expression on her face that he was sure was on his own. "Their leader is not coming out," she observed. "At least, not in range of our weapons." Her eyes narrowed as she tried to penetrate the darkness of the square. "Or they are learning to adapt to the barricade, and neither explanation bodes well for future encounters. We must attend to him tonight, or risk being delayed here for days to hunt them down."

"We don't have time for that," Livilla noted, but Ives could almost hear the unspoken qualifier in everyone's thoughts: Artana does not have time for that. "So we must draw them out."

Artana nodded. "We must draw them out. It is either that or hunt them down one by one, and the conditions do not favor us in that tactic."

"Leave the barricade?" Jean surmised, a frown on his face.

Artana shrugged as she hopped down from the sturdy crates she had been standing on for a better vantage. Another howl echoed through the night, but it sounded no closer than the second one. "They are like animals, and think like animals. Now that we have bloodied them, they will be more wary to enter the open, but they are not smart enough to simply give up. Especially if-"

"-they are presented with an irresistible target?" Isabeau finished for her. "A bait too delectable to ignore? Say, perhaps, a short woman sent out from the barricade to gather arrows?"

Artana nodded. "I will go out and-"

"No, Commander, I respectfully disagree," Isabeau interrupted her before either twin could do so. "I should go. I'm shorter than you and possibly even more vulnerable looking, but even more importantly, in this case the armor matters." She tapped the lamellar armor that covered her torso beneath the griffon emblazoned on her chest plate. "It only takes a bite, non? That bite would be far too likely to find flesh on you if even one penetrated your defenses."

As Artana mulled over Isabeau's words, Ives managed to beat Jean to voicing his opinion - likely because Jean did not know which woman to address first, given the way the warrior shifted from foot to foot. "Amour, Isabeau is right in that your current protection is not suitable to exposing yourself, even potentially, to the attack of a werewolf. However, ma chèrie," he continued, turning to Isabeau, "you cannot think we would allow you to go out there on such a scheme."

"It makes tactical sense," Isabeau insisted, "and it's the best shot we have at drawing the rest of them out in one night."

Jean was struggling, Ives could tell. Isabeau was correct: tactically, it did make sense to give the appearance of vulnerability to draw an enemy into a rash action. The problem was, in this case, the appearance and the actuality of being vulnerable were all too close outside the relative safety of the barricade. Thus far, Jean and Isabeau had been fighting side by side almost the entire time, with the archers and mage behind them launching long-distance attacks over their heads and the townsfolk covering the sides of the barricades to prevent the lone werewolf here or there from coming in over the sides.

"I should go to cover her," the warrior finally said. "I am protected head to toe in steel and leather. I... I am of more use in the open than behind a wall." Ives watched as Jean once again glanced between the two women, his eyes lingering just a short while longer on Artana than Isabeau. "If their teeth find flesh on me, I almost say they deserve to."

Isabeau glanced at Jean, then looked away, up at the top of the barricade. "Not too close to me, if you... if you insist. And I still think I should go alone. I'm not-"

Another howl keened through the air, almost taunting in its distance. "Whatever we do," Livilla interjected, "we must decide quickly. Perhaps Isabeau and I could go out front."

Artana shook her head as she turned to climb back onto the crate. "We cannot risk our only mage. I also will not put Isabeau into undue danger." Settling herself on the crate, she took up her bow and sighted along it, searching for any signs of strain in string or wood. There was a terseness to her tone and posture that made Ives wonder how fond she was of the plan, and for what particular reason she hesitated. "Isabeau, Jean will accompany you, but you will be separated. Jean, do not get too close to her." Her amber eyes settled on her lover, and the phrasing... Ives had to wonder if the warning applied to more than the battle, somehow. "The wolves have to believe her vulnerable. The three of us will cover you, but first the enemy must be drawn out. Livilla," she turned to the mage, who straightened to attention. "That light spell you cast as we came into the village. Can you cast it again?"

"Yes, though I won't be able to attack while I maintain it. Not at that distance, anyway. And..." She glanced at Isabeau. "The longer I wait to cast it once the first werewolves come out-"

"-the more will be caught in the trap," Isabeau finished for her. Her face settled into a grim expression as she reached for the small helm she'd put aside while behind the barricade so as not to compromise her vision. "Then wait as long as you can. Not all shadows are my enemy." Setting the helm on her head, she moved to the crate upon which Ives currently crouched and held up a hand. "Help me over, lout, I've got some arrows to pretend to collect."

He took her hand, but as she passed him, he held her in place for a moment. "Surely you are not... relying on the shadows?" he asked softly for her ears only.

Her hand tightened around his, though she didn't look at him. Still, he saw her lips move and he hurriedly leaned in closer under the guise of lowering her to the opposite side of the crate. "He won't let me die."

Then she let go of his hand and was moving through the townspeople who were defending the rest of the barricade, waiting patiently as they moved aside enough of it for her to slip through an opening.

Jean climbed over the crate without help from Ives, who was still looking after Isabeau with a frown. His brother's expression was... odd, a mixture of anxiety and determination, and unlike the usual focused concentration Jean wore during battle. He managed to set a hand on Jean's shoulder before he got out of reach. "Take care, mon frère."

Jean hesitated long enough to settle his gauntleted hand on Ives' gloved one. "Ward Artana," he said quietly, then surged ahead to follow Isabeau.

The following minutes were tense. Some of the torches in the farthest reaches of the town square had dimmed, which meant that the further out that Isabeau and Jean ventured, the harder it was to follow their movements from behind the barricade. The moon helped, but it wasn't as bright as could be hoped for their purposes, despite the fact that it was full. Artana had an arrow nocked as she watched them carefully, gaze tracking the reflection of the torches off their armor as they worked through the fallen bodies, taking arrows as their pretense demanded. Ives cursed softly when the two warriors stepped beyond the most accurate range of his crossbow, knowing that any shot he made from this distance would need to be directed at enemies not in close proximity to them. After much testing, he and Artana had determined that his crossbow could launch a bolt farther than Artana's bow, but that Artana's arrows always struck their mark except at the extreme edge of her range... and the two in armor were not yet beyond that, at least.

A sudden distant growl made all three of them stand to attention. A dark moving patch suddenly launched itself from behind a building and ran towards Jean, snarling and snapping. Artana's arrow found its shoulder, forcing it to roll a few feet from the warrior, and Jean's smooth thrust finished it off. Another growl came, this time from Isabeau's side, but the blur of dark brown fur was seized by a lightning bolt launched with admirable precision from Livilla's staff, allowing Isabeau's blade to slash across the neck and send blood spraying to the side.

"I do not like this," Ives muttered softly. "What if the bite is not the only worry? Could a claw mark or blood also infect them? The taint-"

"According to my people's lore, it requires a bite," Artana declared. "Now be silent. I need to concentrate. Livilla, stand ready."

"Yes, Commander." Livilla's knuckles were white due to the strength with which she gripped her staff, but her eye didn't waver from the two armored figures in the distance.

Suddenly a series of howls arose, and the hair on Ives' neck rose as he realized that these howls arose from all sides. Dropping the crossbow, he dove desperately for the daggers he'd hidden away and pulled them into his hands, turning to leap onto the crate in time to slash at the paw that reached up over the wall of the inn's courtyard. "Behind!" he yelled. How in the Fade did they get back there? Grimly he wondered how many people were dead behind that large fence.

Suddenly the air around them was lit as if it were midday, and the screams and gurgles of the humans as they were caught by the surprise flank attack mixed in with the whines and shrieks of the werewolves as the light blinded them momentarily.

That moment was enough for the humans to rally, and for Artana to leap off her crate to the ground. From there she pivoted and began picking off the enemies that now strove to advance on them from behind.

Unfortunately, it also left Isabeau and Jean on their own. And Ives... well, his own hands were full as he made sure that Livilla remained untouched by the surrounding enemies. If they lost the light that gave them the ability to see their enemies so clearly, they would all die.

Time seemed to slow as his focus narrowed to nothing but his own defense and, by extension, the two ladies he fought beside. Livilla at least managed to make her way so that her back was to the barricade, meaning he only had to worry about half as much ground, but the number of enemies astounded him. Were they merely testing our defenses before? Or were those two assaults designed for the sole purpose of getting the bulk of their forces around to flank us? Either way, it spoke of a disturbing intelligence, though he hoped the latter were true: it might mean Isabeau and Jean were facing only a token force on their own, rather than a ravenous horde equally as large as what now assailed those behind the barricade from all sides.

Ives refused to even consider what would happen in that case.

Somehow, the combination of his quick blades and Artana's even faster arrows saw them through the assault, though his occasional glances to the side showed it was not only the bodies of werewolves and wolves which lay still amongst the townsfolk. Somehow the light stayed steady, though he noticed that Livilla's breathing was now coming in short gasps behind him, and he wondered how long she would be able to maintain the spell.

It wasn't until after he'd stabbed a one-eared werewolf in the throat and slashed it with his other knife that he realized the pressure had eased. Next to him, Artana nocked one more arrow and looked around for a target which never materialized. Ives leaned over and set his hands on his knees, drawing in huge lungfuls of air to ease the pain in his side that had somehow crept up on him in the midst of the battle. "You are both- both untouched?" he managed to gasp.

Abruptly a woman's scream cut through the air, accompanied by a sound that, even at this distance, sent a chill through him: breaking bones. The sound galvanized him, gave him strength to hop back up on his abandoned crate and search the space in front of the barricade for the only woman he cared about that hadn't been next to him when the scream had reached his ears: Isabeau.

In the bright light of Livilla's spell, he beheld two figures in armor where they had confronted a huge foe of mottled black and grey fur, an impressive pile of fallen foes strewn haphazardly around them. He saw Isabeau clutching at her arm as she fell to her knees, saw the werewolf beside her throw away a crushed piece of metal that might once have been a round targe, and saw Jean charge the huge beast with a roar. With a powerful blow from the creature, Jean was sent flying to land several long paces away, groaning helplessly as the werewolf turned to contemplate his vulnerable victim. Time seemed to crawl as the beast's tongue emerged to lick its teeth in a terrifying grin. It completely ignored the arrow which sped through the air to land in its shoulder. Ives cried in horror as the light which Livilla had been valiantly maintaining suddenly flickered and vanished just as that ravenous maw began to lunge down towards Isabeau.

A shadow darker than the night around them suddenly collided with the beast and drove it to the ground. That was enough to distract it from Isabeau, particularly when the shadow suddenly drew a dagger and sank it into its unpierced shoulder. With a roar, the werewolf focused on this new attack, and the two combatants wrestled on the ground, moving away from where Isabeau was clearly only now beginning to think through the pain of her viciously broken arm. Ives struggled to remember that only seconds had passed since he'd heard the bones snap, and only seconds were passing as he watched the man he assumed must be Martin take on the beast that had to be the elusive leader of the werewolf pack. Even as he jerked forward, he stopped himself as he recalled that the light had dropped so suddenly, and he turned back again to look at Livilla. She was laying at a strange angle on the ground, as though she'd had no control over the fall.

Would she be all right? Who was in greater danger? The half-formed questions in his mind were put aside as he threw caution to the wind and climbed up over a crate so that he could clear the barricade. "Artana! Help Livilla!" he called, then jumped - quite literally - into the fray.

When he reached Isabeau's side he didn't stop looking left and right in rampant paranoia, even as he wrapped his arms around her. Despite the adrenaline and lingering danger, he carefully avoided her hurt arm and hummed a tune to calm her. He held her close, trying to keep her still, but she struggled weakly as her eyes followed the two figures rolling in the dust. The combatants were moving so quickly that not even Artana dared let fly an arrow to end the matter - a restraint which demonstrated the respect Martin had earned from her with his foolish but effective maneuver.

The fight was savage, with Martin's daggers and the werewolf's claws and teeth glinting in the moonlight and torchlight to the accompaniment of growls and grunts. Blood lay in dark patches on the ground behind them as it continued, and in the dim light, Ives could not tell from whom the blood originated. A movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention for a moment, and he watched as Jean struggled to his feet with evident difficulty, a crease ruining the line of his breastplate and showing the strength with which he'd been hit. The distraction lasted only an instant, however, before his eyes moved back to the struggle no more than a dozen feet away, close enough now that he could see the long rents in the sleeves of the fighter who lacked fur, and feel Isabeau whimper at the sight of the blood that glistened under the shredded cloth.

Suddenly the snarls from the werewolf transformed into a squeal of pain as one of Martin's daggers plunged deeply into its abdomen, and for that moment the beast sounded more like a dog than a wolf. The squeal became subsumed into a roar, but that was cut off abruptly when Martin placed both his hands on the hilt of his remaining dagger, planted the tip under the werewolf's chin, and shoved upwards with all his strength.

The werewolf immediately went limp, though the fingers on its hands continued to twitch slightly for a few seconds.

Laboriously Martin pushed himself away from the werewolf, rolling to one side until he was on his hands and knees a few feet from where Ives still knelt with his arms around Isabeau. His breath came in short, quick bursts, and his arms trembled from the strain of the fight. This close, the light of the moon allowed Ives to see the deep puncture wounds left by the werewolf's teeth on one of the man's shoulders. After taking a deep breath, Martin raised his head and looked at Isabeau, as if she were the only thing in Thedas that existed. With an effort that almost hurt to watch, he crawled closer to them. "My angel," he whispered.

Isabeau stared at him, eyes wide through her pain. Her trembling, which had been subsiding, suddenly increased, and Ives heard a little sob escape her as she reached out with her unbroken arm towards the man. "Martin..."

It was almost as if someone had taken hold of his heart and squeezed as Ives watched the scene unfold. Isabeau, arm shattered, still reached for Martin, yearning for the one who by all rights she should fear above all others. Jean, for all his anger and hatred, could do little more than stare, the chain of events leaving him uncertain what to do. No doubt it had been jarring to see Martin do something so selfless - Ives was feeling much the same shock, despite Martin's earlier declarations of absolute devotion to his angel. Ives felt a sense of awe work through him as he looked at Martin, realizing that the man had spoken nothing less than the truth. For all that Ives had been hopeful before, now he was certain that Martin could be (or, sadly, perhaps could have been, given the nature of his injuries) redeemed.

Maybe it was because Ives had better reach, given his place at Isabeau's side. Maybe it was something more. If anyone was going to tell - no, show - Martin that what he'd done was worthy of note and spectacular, maybe it should have been Isabeau. Clearly their connection was deep, and maybe in this moment of purity he didn't have any business interfering. His heart had gotten him into much deeper trouble in his years, though, and so before Ives knew it, the pressure around his heart eased all of a sudden, and the world suddenly opened up beyond his narrow focus on Martin. The world caught up before his mind did, and suddenly he realized what he'd done in that quiet moment of awe: much as his eyes were staring deep into Martin's, his hand was likewise entwined, clutching the outstretched, bloodied one that had been offered.

Martin's eyes were wide as they stared back at Ives, reflecting a deep uncertainty as to how to respond. His fingers tightened around those which threaded them, however, and for the briefest of moments a smile came to his lips as he looked at Ives.

Then the mismatched eyes rolled up into his head as Martin collapsed, the fall dragging his hand from Ives' grasp. With a cry, Isabeau reached out to him, but Ives kept her back. "Your arm, chèrie," he whispered, though now his own mind was once more roiling with questions, with no answers easily forthcoming.

"We will... wash him, then bind his wounds. Livilla can look at him." Though Jean tried to keep his voice gentle for Isabeau's sake, Ives could hear the strain to talk in such a way about this particular man. "If he can be healed … if ... I have a matter to settle with him, and I would prefer he die for his crimes at my hand, honorably." Jean didn't look like he knew quite how to react or how to feel, and Ives so wished he did. Maybe if his brother had a stronger reaction, Ives would have had something to latch onto - to... emulate, if nothing else.

Tears filled Isabeau's eyes, and it was clear she was having difficulty looking away from Martin. Her next words were spoken in a whisper and directed to the unconscious man. "You know the legends as well as I. Why-?" Hesitantly, she reached out and stroked his face, one of the few places untouched by a crimson flow. "Martin,"she murmured. "What happened to you?"

"Sister, your arm," Jean said, then paused. "We need to get you to a healer." Jean put his sword in its sheath and his shield on his back, then knelt beside them. "I will carry you, if you wish. He ... he must be considered later."

"How - how can you say that?" Ives asked, still struggling with himself. "I ... I need a ... take her," he said, gently squeezing Isabeau's good arm. "I'll be sure our martyr is taken care of," he whispered to her, struggling as though he were already dead and now another 'job' unfinished. "Artana will have been helping Livilla recover by now."

She smiled wanly up at Ives before turning to Jean with an equally weak smile. "This seems to be becoming a habit." With difficulty and both Jean's and Ives' assistance, she managed to stand, immediately biting her lips as she cradled her arm. "My poor armor," she gasped. "I... I think it will need to be cut off my arm." Certainly her arm had swollen to fill the sleeve, both above and below the elbow. The sleeve itself had been torn and shredded when the werewolf had ripped the shield away. Ives winced, knowing a terrible break when he saw one.

"If I had been faster..." Jean shook his head. "I could not even take the blow for you." Yet he'd been prepared to, that much was clear to Ives. "Are you ready?" Ives assumed he didn't want to jostle her as he bent to situate himself in a way best suited to lift her, their armor clattering against each other. "I know it is a broken arm, not a leg, but you cannot begin to rest too soon."

She sighed, casting one last glance at Martin's crumpled form before turning a rather pathetic expression to Jean. Ives knew it was not calculated, and knew equally well that Isabeau had no idea how much it affected his brother when she said in a tiny voice, "I thank you for your consideration, ser. I... I wouldn't mind feeling strong arms around me right now."

No doubt unsure how to respond, Jean set his jaw and nodded. At best picking her up could be described as clumsy, but he shifted her until she settled into a sweet spot between elbow and breastplate. Ives knew there must have been confusing emotions within the man, particularly when Isabeau sighed and leaned against his chest, humming a tune quite familiar to both brothers, a tune which matched the words Isabeau had chanted on the road to Arlesans.

Ives felt a smile skitter across his face as he turned away from his brother. Conflicting emotions, indeed... and he simply could not understand why they were inside himself, as well. As Jean plodded off with Isabeau in his arms, resiliently carrying her over the corpse-littered uneven ground in spite of the combined weight of two sets of armor and both of their occupants testing his calves, Ives turned his attention instead to the man who, the day before, was simply someone Ives would have been more than happy to see gone entirely from his life.

And now? Ives couldn't explain what made him lean over and struggle with Martin's heavy body. It was a mystery to him why he took the man's armor off, save for the dim voice in the back of his head that suggested it would make Martin a little lighter - an impulse which, again, he couldn't articulate. Yet he did it, and as he hummed a little tune to steady his body and mind against the strain of it, he hefted the body - far too heavy for a rogue such as himself to get very far with - and somehow still found his way back inside the barricade.

Ives finally relinquished the man to a group of townsfolk who arrived with a stretcher, a blond man at the lead, and watched them take Martin to the inn's courtyard, settling him next to Livilla and Isabeau to await the attentions of the local healer. Sinking to his knees next to the barricade, Ives watched as Artana directed the townsfolk in the proper disposal of the werewolves' bodies. He observed as Jean leaned against the fence near the inn, gaze shifting back and forth between the diminutive elf who shared his bed and the equally small human who bravely remained silent as her arm was pulled straight and splinted.

Ives let his hands fall to the ground in weariness, and blinked when they found cold metal there. He glanced down and saw the daggers which he had abandoned in his haste to jump the barricade and reach Isabeau's side. Carefully he picked them up, one by one, and cleaned them with a cloth pulled from the pouch around his waist. Martin can be saved, I am sure of it... His fingers moved over the cool metal of the exquisitely wrought blades before he brought them together with a click and blindly reached for the sheath that still lay beneath the barricade. Slowly he put the sheath around his waist and slid them home, sighing as he felt the comfortable weight of weapons once more against his side.

Martin can be saved... and Ives had no idea what, if anything, that truly meant. For him, or anyone.