Author's Note: I made a terrible mistake. So, enjoy a two-part chapter. Sorry for the sheer amount. It's so close to being done. Hang in there!

Act XX: The Deep Roads

Part I

Zevran

Blood.

There was blood.

Why was there blood?

There shouldn't have been blood.

Not where Revan had been sleeping.

But where was Revan?

Zevran stared at the spot where the Jedi had been sleeping. It had been slightly removed from the others, situated near the cavern wall. Her bedroll was still out, her gear still arranged in her typical fashion, with her lightsabers placed carefully within easy grasp. Her swords were still in their scabbards. There was just blood, splattered near where her head would have lain. The part of Zevran's brain that was still functioning, the logical part, noted that the way the blood had dried indicated it had fallen, probably from a cut or stab wound. If it had been an artery, it would more than likely have left a spray pattern. The blood trailed off toward the wall, where Sten and Morrigan had discovered a well-concealed crevice in the stone. Morrigan had morphed into a Mabari hound and was trying to follow the trail, but it abruptly cut off at a branching of the small tunnel leading from the crevice. Sten had accompanied her, obviously perturbed by Revan's disappearance, but he was stoic. Shayle was trying to be nonchalant, but it was apparent that the golem was upset that she had not noticed something amiss earlier. Alistair was beside himself, sitting on his bedroll with his head cradled in his hands. Rose was speaking in hushed tones to Duran, discussing what could have happened. Oghren was sitting by the campfire, clutching the bottle he and Revan had shared that night and staring at it as if it might contain the answers to what had happened. And Zevran just…stood there. He felt numb. He didn't want to believe his eyes. Revan was gone.

They had all failed her.

They were supposed to look out for each other. Shayle was supposed to be on guard. The Wardens were supposed to sense nearby darkspawn. So why, then, had no one noticed when Revan was taken? And why had Zevran not woken up? He had placed his own bedroll nearest hers. How had he not sensed something was wrong? How had he failed her?

But that only raised further questions. Revan was incredibly powerful. She had, after all, slain two high dragons, survived a lethal attack by a blood mage, lit a lake on fire, and purportedly decimated an entire world when she had first received Urthemiel's power. It didn't make sense that she would have been captured. She had magic; she was strong in the Force, whatever that was; and she was by far the best fighter Zevran had ever seen, at least with her blades. She would only allow herself to be captured if it would serve a purpose…or if she had been incapacitated. He had seen her when she was weak. In fact, that was how he had met her: weak from having directly absorbed blood magic, barely able to walk, but there was fire in her eye. He had never met anyone that had been so strong. So, her disappearance now was inexplicable.

Sten emerged from the small tunnel, covered in grime. He wore a deeper scowl than normal on his inscrutable face. Deliberately, he walked to Zevran and stood by his side. They stood together silently for a moment. Zevran did not understand the Qunari well, but he knew that Sten was in just as much pain. He had cared for Revan in his own way.

"I don't understand," Zevran finally broke the silence.

"What is there to understand?" Sten responded, the question surprisingly not condescending. "She was taken."

"But why?" the assassin finally turned his head to look at the giant. "And why did she let herself be taken? It makes no sense."

Sten contemplated his words, and looked about to answer when they were interrupted. "It doesn't matter," Duran had finished his discussion with Rose. He looked weary. "She's dead, or as good as. The only things down here that would have taken her are darkspawn, and they'll either eat her or turn her into a broodmother. Just hope it was the former."

Zevran felt a fury bubbling in his chest. His fists clenched tightly. "She's not dead."

"Face facts, elf," Duran sighed. "These are the Deep Roads. She's not going to be ransomed, she's not being held captive by anything with morals or dignity. Once you go missing down here, you're dead. You're either killed by darkspawn, or you eventually are forced to eat their flesh and become corrupted, or you starve. Trust me on that. She's not coming back."

The words hit Zevran like a slap in the face. The edges of his vision went fuzzy as the rage built within him. His body began trembling. With a roar, he lunged at the exiled prince, determined to throttle him for even suggesting that Revan was dead, only for Rose to step between them. Her eyes were hard, her face stone. The Warden grabbed Zevran by the shoulders and shook him.

"Zevran! Get yourself together!" she commanded him firmly. "We must be rational. We cannot afford to lose our heads down here."

Zevran snarled, but the hollowness of their situation crept back, leaving him feeling drained. He sank under Rose's glare, the strength and anger fleeing his limbs. He sat heavily on the ground and held his head in his hands. "We have to go after her," he whispered.

Rose knelt next to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Zevran, but we can't. We have to go back to Orzammar."

The elf's head snapped up. "What?"

"We don't have a choice," Rose hung her head. "We barely have enough rations to make it back to Orzammar as it is. We have to leave. I'm sorry."

Zevran stared at the Warden, uncomprehending and disconsolate. "Then we'll come back, yes?"

"We can't," Morrigan's voice echoed sadly from behind them all as Rose struggled to answer. She had morphed back into a human, and was standing next to Revan's bedroll, looking at the blood. She looked downtrodden as she continued, "Revan was willing to give her life to defeat Urthemiel. We must see it through. There is nothing to be gained by lingering here."

Alistair aimed a pointed glower at the witch. "So what? Revan's life doesn't matter now? We're just going to give up on her?"

"Her life matters as much as anyone else's," Morrigan responded, "but we are all expendable. What matters is stopping the Blight, and we can do that without her. She knew the risks in coming down here. We all did."

That seemed to silence Alistair, but he was still sullen. Zevran looked between all of his companions. None could meet his eyes.

"Let me stay, then," he pleaded with Rose, who held his life in her hands. He had, after all, pledged it to her for saving him.

Rose finally managed to look him in the eyes. She was in pain, too.

"Oh, don't be an idiot," Morrigan snapped in the distance. "You would throw your life away for a false hope."

Ignoring her, Rose said quietly, "I'm not leaving you behind, Zev."

"But you'd leave her?"

Rose said nothing to him in reply, but the look in her eyes was enough. She turned away quickly, but not before Zevran saw the tears welling up there. She stood, dusting off her clothes. "Pack up camp. It's time we move on."

Rose

"Ah, Warden Rose," the new King of Orzammar looked up from his growing pile of paperwork. "I was hoping you'd drop by. Please, have a seat."

Rose eyed the stone chair – they were awfully uncomfortable – but sat regardless, leaning back and arranging her legs to make it seem like she was relaxed and in control. In reality, she was ready to either bolt straight out of Orzammar or murder half the deshyrs of the Assembly. The last two days in Orzammar had frayed her nerves to the breaking point. The first incident upon arriving back in the dwarven city was Duran's departure. He had prudently thought returning would be a poor decision, and despite Rose's offer to become a Grey Warden, he had declined, instead taking Kardol up on his offer to become a Legionnaire. She had been disappointed, because Duran had been a fine warrior and had a strong sense of honor, but she respected his decision and his wish to keep his "Stone sense" and serve his people. She could understand that. However, Kardol and the other Legionnaires had offered to come to the Wardens' aid with the rest of the dwarven forces. Once inside Orzammar, however, things had quickly deteriorated. They had been escorted directly to the Assembly, where they had almost not been admitted since the Assembly was in session, until Rose had made some very inventive threats involving the deshyrs' beards. Inside, Rose had presented Caridin's crown, which was met with some speculation until Bandelor had certified it to be of Paragon make. Then, once Rose had proclaimed it would go to Bhelen, half the deshyrs declared it to have been an elaborate con to get Bhelen on the throne. Bhelen had then had Harrowmont executed, a brutal play designed to assert his control but one that Rose found unnecessarily cruel. Following the coronation, she and the others of her party had been continually harassed by Harrowmont supporters until it had turned violent and Shayle had crushed two together. The guards were complaining that they were still scraping the remains off of the stone. Now, they just faced dirty looks and whispers. It was still more than Rose had wanted. And now, Bhelen supporters were pestering her with political requests, as if she had any clout. She did not have time to deal with house squabbles or trade deals.

"Thank you, King Bhelen," she emphasized the "king" part. He looked up at her through thick but manicured eyebrows. "It seems that you are settling into the role of sovereign quite well."

"Years of studying under my father have prepared me," Bhelen said, quite honestly. "He was a good man, and a decent king. He at least could keep the deshyrs in line. But enough of the past. What did you want to discuss?"

Rose drummed on the arm of the chair. "I've come to discuss a deal."

Bhelen raised an eyebrow. "I've already promised you troops, Warden, and I will keep my word. What more did you want? Weapons? I believe you have your own blacksmiths on the surface."

"I'm not negotiating on behalf of the Grey Wardens," Rose smiled slightly. "I am negotiating on behalf of the King of Ferelden."

Now Bhelen was very confused. "As I understand it, Ferelden is having its own succession problems at the moment. Aren't you being hunted by the regent at the moment?"

Rose waved her hand dismissively. "A Landsmeet will soon be called, and the matter will be decided then. While I care about the outcome, I must care more about the people of Ferelden. A wise woman once told me that what happens after a war is arguably more important than the waging of the war itself, and is the most ignored portion. After the Blight is over, regardless of who sits on that throne, Ferelden will need to rebuild. Soldiers will have to find new work. Crops will have to be replanted. Towns will have to be rebuilt. I want to make sure that whoever becomes monarch will have the resources to see that through."

Bhelen eyed her curiously. "You want dwarven builders and stone."

"In exchange for Ferelden soldiers and crops," Rose nodded.

"Orzammar has a warrior cast, we have no need for mercenaries," the king scowled.

Rose raised a finger. "But you don't have enough warriors to launch expeditions to reclaim the lost thaigs in the Deep Roads. The period after the Blight brings a respite from the darkspawn, does it not? I'm sure the noble houses would pounce on the opportunity to stake out their own thaigs. And the Legion of the Dead might be able to take back Bownammar."

The dwarven king stroked his beard contemplatively. "And you're sure that whoever you put on the throne will accept to these terms?"

"I won't be putting anyone on the throne. The Landsmeet will," Rose clarified. "And the precise terms will, of course, need to be hammered out later, but I am reasonably confident that, as long as the crown is sensible, the deal will be honored."

"Clever," Bhelen admitted. "You want to draw a deal in advance so I'm forced to honor my word to supply troops, because the following deal will be profitable. I'll admit, I'm surprised, Warden."

"Do we have a deal or not?" she leaned forward.

"You have a deal, Warden Rose," Bhelen extended a hand. "I hope you can make your king, or queen, accept the deal." Rose took the hand firmly, shaking to acknowledge the arrangement. Bhelen paused. "Are you sure you can't be queen? You seem to understand the game better than the last fool who had the throne."

Rose managed a smile despite the insult to Cailan. "I am but a humble Grey Warden. I merely fight darkspawn."

"Uh huh," Bhelen sat back heavily. "Don't play coy, Warden. I did have to learn some of the Ferelden genealogies growing up. 'Cousland' seemed to be a pretty prominent family. Doesn't your family govern the teyrnir of Highever?"

The Warden grimaced. "Not anymore."

Bhelen, fortunately, noted the dark expression on her face and thought better than to press her for details. He let the matter drop. "Think on it."

"I will," she assured him. She rose from her chair. "Now, I need to resupply and gather my companions. We will leave in the morning."

Bhelen rose with her. "You and your companions will always be welcome back in Orzammar, Warden. We owe you a great debt." He extended his hand to her again.

She took it, but leaned in close as she did. "I lost a good woman to get you that crown," Rose said quietly, but firmly. "Don't make me regret my decision."

She let go before Bhelen could respond and strode out of the room, back straight and chin high like her mother had taught her. No weakness. She had to be firm with these men, or they would push their way through her to get what they wanted. Her mother's advice often rang in her head these days. Don't let them walk all over you. Have a firm handshake; look them in the eyes. Be brave. She was still working on the last one.

Rose made her way back to the Chambers of the Assembly. She had lied a bit to Bhelen. Morrigan and Shayle were out purchasing supplies, though Rose had been slightly concerned about giving the two most interested in shiny things money for the shiniest market in the world. However, everyone needed a distraction after their ordeal in the Deep Roads. She had asked Sten to accompany Zevran and Oghren as the dwarf finished up the last of his business in Orzammar. Alistair had insisted on running some of their more mundane errands, like submitting the documents and artifacts they had found in the Deep Roads to the Shaperate. He had been desperate for anything to do, to keep his mind occupied, especially after having broken down several times on their forced march back to Orzammar. It was better than Zevran, who had become completely despondent. They could barely get a word out of him. She had tried flirting, dirty jokes, and even embarrassing Alistair, which had amused Morrigan, but had done nothing to get a reaction from the elf. It was hard, without…without her.

She opened the door to her quarters, expecting Fuzzywuggins to greet her, but instead found Alistair playing with the Mabari with a rawhide. He was playing tug-of-war with the hound. Fuzzywuggins was going easy on him, tail wagging furiously side-to-side. If he had wanted to, the Mabari could have easily ripped the rawhide away, and likely dislocated Alistair's arms. But the hound seemed to like him. They both stopped playing when they noticed her arrive. Fuzzywuggins dropped the rawhide and barked happily, butt now wagging with his tail. Alistair beamed at her. Maker, he was handsome, with his honey brown eyes and his tousled hair.

"Well?" he asked. "How did it go? Did he make any more demands in exchange for his help, or did he find a clause in the original treaty he's using to wiggle out of it?"

"Neither," Rose closed the door behind her. "We will have Orzammar's aid." Suddenly, she felt very weary. She leaned back against the door and slid to the ground, resting her head against her knees.

Alistair was by her side in seconds, sitting next to her against the wall. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?"

The weight of what they had done, and what they had yet to do, hit her at that moment. This was the first time in a while she had been able to relax. And the emotions she had been bottling away came bursting forth. Tears bubbled in her eyes and spilled out, running hotly down her face. Her shoulders began shaking.

"Oh, Maker, Revan is dead," Rose choked.

Alistair wrapped her in a shockingly tight side hug, and she turned to cry into his chest. She felt so hopeless. Revan had been her rock, her guidance when things were at their worst. The Jedi had been so strong. And after seeing Urthemiel in the Deep Roads, and seeing the army he had amassed, Rose didn't know how their meager numbers were going to stand against the horde. Even assuming they could get all of Arl Eamon's troops, they were vastly outnumbered. And how could they defeat an Archdemon on their own? They were only two Wardens, and in Blights past they had an entire army of Grey Wardens. And they had had griffons. But now, her friends were looking to her to stop the Blight. How could she defeat Urthemiel when she couldn't even save her best friend?

Finally, the sobs subsided, and Rose got her breathing back under control. She tried to remember the breathing exercises that Revan had used. For a while, she just sat there with her head pressed against Alistair's chest. He was warm, his muscles firm, his heartbeat strong, his scent just the right amount of musky to be attractive but not overpowering. She had never been with someone so wonderful. She clung to him tightly as he ran his fingers through her hair gingerly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should be stronger than this. I need to be stronger."

"Hey, look at me," he put a finger under her chin and lifted it to meet his eyes. "You don't always have to be stoic. It's all right to feel. And it's all right to not always be strong. We're a team now. I can be strong for you, when you need it."

She wrapped her arms around him, content to just be near him. He held her to him. Fuzzywuggins had laid next to her on the other side, sensing his master was in pain.

"I miss her," Rose finally admitted. She had refused to actually say anything about Revan and her disappearance since the day it had happened. She hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, and she had been so busy keeping the others together and alive that she hadn't been able to mourn. It felt good to say something now. But it hurt. Her chest was tight as the words were spoken. Images of the older woman laughing and spinning tales of far-off worlds flashed in her head. She had been important to her, and to Alistair and Zevran and Sten and Morrigan and Shayle and even, Rose suspected, to Oghren. Losing her had dealt a huge blow to everyone, but Revan had been Rose's best friend, and the one who understood what had happened in Highever.

"I do too," Alistair leaned in closer. After a moment, he elaborated, "You know, she was the first person who made me believe I could actually be king?" Rose raised her eyes to look at him speculatively. "What? I know you believe I can. But she made me think it. You know, when I was being taught by the Chantry Sisters, I used to cause all sorts of mischief. This one time, when I was supposed to recite a passage from the Canticle of Benedictions, I delivered this god-awful Antivan poem instead. It took a minute for the Sister to realize I wasn't reciting the Chant of Light. Oh the look on her face was so scandalized. But I used to do that sort of thing all the time. The Sisters hated me for it, said I was a naughty child who was going to be devoured by demons for my insolence. I had to cut my fair share of switches in the Chantry. But Revan…she didn't let me get away with that. She made me actually think. I don't think I've ever been more proud than when she told me she agreed with how I solved one of her problems." Alistair sighed. "I know you were talking to her about the Landsmeet. I heard what she said. You know, I never thought, growing up, that I would ever be in line for the throne. And that was all right. I didn't want it. And even after Cailan died, I thought the throne would go to Anora or Arl Eamon. I certainly didn't think I would be a good king. But now…after seeing Orzammar, and after Goldanna…I think, maybe, I could do it. I don't want to, but maybe…I had just hoped Revan would be there. It's…terrifying to think I'll have to do it alone."

"You won't be alone," Rose disagreed. "You'll have Arl Eamon. And you'll have me."

He hugged her tighter. "And what would I do without you?"

Eamon

Eamon Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe, was forced to lay like an invalid in bed. His wife, Isolde, had refused to let him up, and kept fussing over him, a constant stream of chatter as noise. But he didn't complain; he knew Isolde needed to worry over him. She blamed herself for much of what had happened in Redcliffe, starting with hiding Connor's power from him. Connor had since been taken to Kinloch Hold under First Enchanter Irving's supervision. He had been deeply saddened to hear that his little boy had been taken away, but ultimately Eamon knew it was for the best. Especially considering what had happened when his powers had not been properly contained. Teagan, his younger brother, had explained the rest of what had happened, including Eamon's poisoning by Connor's tutor, the bloodmage Jowan, followed by Connor's possession and the attacks on Redcliffe Village by his army of reanimated corpses. The tale took a turn when the trio of Grey Wardens – Alistair, Dragonheart, and the youngest Cousland child – had arrived. They had defended the village with the help of their companions before entering the castle and securing Connor. They then went all the way to the Circle to get enough mages and lyrium to drive the demon out of Connor, before Dragonheart and some of their companions had found the legendary Urn of Sacred Ashes to heal Eamon of his fatal illness. He had met with the mage Wynne and the bard Leliana, who had arrived with the Ashes. They had told him of the heroic efforts the Grey Wardens had undertaken to help Redcliffe, and him.

A soldier rushed into the room as Eamon was reading a treatise on warfare by an Orlesian chevalier during one of his rare moments of quiet, winded by the winding run through the castle. "Arl!" the man managed to straighten and salute. "The Grey Wardens were spotted approaching the castle! Sir!"

Eamon snapped the book shut and grabbed the cane sitting by his bed. His illness, despite having been magically cured, had still left him weakened. "Very good, soldier. Return to your post."

The soldier saluted once again before departing. Eamon rose shakily to his feet, relying fairly heavily on his cane. Curse the poison! He had very much wanted to execute the poisoner, but his conscience demanded he wait. After all, the Wardens had been the ones to apprehend Jowan, and they had spared his life. That, and Jowan had been the one to go into the Fade to rescue Connor. It was a tricky situation. Especially since, apparently, Dragonheart had wanted to make Jowan a Grey Warden. The Wardens did have the Right of Conscription, wherein they could draft anyone into the Wardens regardless of birth, status, or past history. He would wait to converse with them before making a final judgement. And, he wanted to thank them all personally. They had done more than Eamon could ever have asked. He limped his way down the long hallways and twisting stairs of Redcliffe Castle, the pain of each step shooting through his nerves and echoing in his bones and creaking through his joints. He was not as young as he used to be.

He found the Grey Wardens and their companions waiting for him in the main hall. Eamon took a moment in the doorway to take them all in. They were certainly a diverse bunch. A golem studded with glittering crystals stood near a hulking, hornless Qunari giant, both of whom seemed to be watching a sulking blonde elf. A Chasind woman stood to the side. A dwarf with vivid red hair and plate that looked to weigh as much as he did examined the stonework with a critical eye. Speaking with Wynne and Leliana was Alistair, all grown up now, but with the same mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Eamon was struck by just how much he looked like Maric, perhaps more so than Cailan had appeared. How anyone had ever thought that Alistair was his son escaped him, though Eamon had done his best to raise him as such. It was a small blessing that he looked nothing like his mother. He had only met her once, but he had seen how Maric had been taken with her. Standing next to Alistair, with a purebred Mabari at her heels, was a woman Eamon immediately found remarkable. Her red hair was streaked with auburn and golden blonde highlights that made her hair appear to be fire, evidence of her old Clayne blood. Her face was the picture of Ferelden beauty, but her armor and weapons were well used. She reminded Eamon of the painting of the Rebel Queen, one of the only depictions of Queen Moira Theirin. Eamon had met her once was a boy, but in life she had been blonde. The painted version had possessed fiery hair, much as the lass in his great hall had. He knew that this must be Rose Cousland. But he saw no sign of the enigmatic Dragonheart.

Everyone turned to look at him as he strode into the great hall. His wife and brother were standing on the receiving dais, awaiting him. He took his place in the center between them, and Rose came forward. Respecting proper protocol, she bowed and crossed her fists across her chest. Technically, now that she was a Grey Warden, she no longer held the station of being a teyrn's daughter, so her bow was lower than tradition would have otherwise dictated. But these were odd times.

"Arl Eamon," she greeted him respectfully.

"Warden Rose," he inclined his head in kind. "Welcome back to Redcliffe. You have not only saved my life, but kept my family safe as well. I am in your debt. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?"

Rose smiled slightly. "It was only with the efforts of my companions that I was able to do such. All I ask is for your help against the Blight."

Eamon weighed her words. "I understand," he finally said, "but regardless of your motivations, I feel you are worthy of a reward. I would like to honor your efforts, nothing more."

The young woman pursed her lips. "As you wish, your grace."

"Then allow me to declare you and those traveling with you champions of Redcliffe. You will always be welcome guests in these halls."

"Thank you, your grace," Rose bowed again in thanks on behalf of herself and her companions.

Teagan turned to Eamon. "We should speak of Loghain, brother. There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery."

Eamon sighed. Straight to business. He wanted to have a few private words with Rose, and with Alistair. It had been too long since they had last met, and it had been a bitter farewell. "Loghain instigates a civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep. Long I have known him. He is a sensible man; one who never desired power."

"I was there when he announced he was taking control of the throne, Eamon," Teagan insisted. "He is mad with ambition, I tell you."

"Mad indeed," Eamon stroked his beard. It had grown out considerably in the course of his illness. "Mad enough to kill Cailan, to attempt to kill myself and destroy my lands." Eamon grew furious just saying the words. He turned to Rose, who was listening astutely. "Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What's more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end."

"Is it possible you can unite the nobility against Loghain?" she asked, betraying no emotion in her voice, but her eyes burned with barely contained fury.

Eamon shook his head slightly. "I could unite those opposing Loghain, yes. But not all oppose him. He has some very powerful allies. We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn."

"We must present evidence of his treachery, then," she responded firmly.

"I will spread the word of Loghain's treachery, both here and against the king," Eamon said carefully, clasping his hands behind his back and facing the roaring fire at the back of the dais, "but it will be but a claim made without proof. Those claims will give Loghain's allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain's daughter, the queen."

Teagan rounded on him. "Are you referring to Alistair, brother? Are you certain?"

"I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred," the arl turned back around. Rose was silently seething, while Alistair, who stood slightly behind her, looked between the three of them awkwardly.

"I think that is a good idea," Rose agreed to the idea levelly. But the tempest behind her eyes scared Eamon.

"Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain," Eamon explained. "Alistair's claim is by blood."

"And what about me? Does anyone care what I want?" Alistair finally spoke up.

"You have a responsibility, Alistair," Eamon looked at the boy, who was petulantly pouting. "Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?"

"I…" Alistair met his eyes, but softened under Eamon's stern gaze. The boy looked away. "No, my lord."

"I see only one way to proceed," the arl continued. "I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all of Ferelden's nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin. What say you to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing."

Rose looked surprised by this request. "Let us proceed with the Landsmeet. It seems the best option."

"Very well, I will send out the word," Eamon declared before nodding to his steward. They had already prepared the messages, and the ravens were ready to fly. The steward silently slid out of the room to see to the delivery. "But before we proceed, I believe there is the matter of the mage…my son's tutor. He still lives, I understand."

"He does," Teagan affirmed. "He is in the dungeon, brother."

"Have him brought here, Teagan. I wish to see him," Eamon commanded. Teagan nodded and strode off to have the guards fetch the maleficar. Meanwhile, Eamon faced Rose. The Cousland boldly met his eyes. This was a dangerous woman. "I have heard tales of your adventures, Warden Rose, but I do not see Warden Dragonheart here. Where is she? I understand that she led the expedition to fetch the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and that she led the village defense. I was hoping to thank her as well."

The party went deathly still. The elf seemed to shrink in on himself, while the Qunari displayed a brief show of emotion as he bowed his head. Alistair looked to be on the verge of tears. The Chasind girl turned away from the rest of the party. The golem seemed to be bowed over. The dwarf looked at the ground and kicked at a loose stone. The mage, Wynne, pursed her lips as Leliana hugged herself. Rose, however, held Eamon's eyes. "Warden Dragonheart perished in the Deep Roads after we found the Paragon Caridin," she said without emotion. "She was taken by darkspawn."

"That is…unfortunate," Eamon searched for the proper words. It was obvious that Dragonheart had meant much to the group. "I am sorry for your loss. She was said to be a brave and kind warrior."

"Thank you, your grace," Rose bowed again, not quite as deeply. Alistair recomposed himself.

"It might be little consolation," Eamon continued, "but the villagers were immensely grateful for your, and Dragonheart's, assistance. They have begun erecting a statue in honor of your sacrifices in the town square."

Rose blinked in confusion, but was spared from responding by Teagan's return. The mage, Jowan, was being escorted between to guards, his hands bound in iron manacles. His robes were soiled, but he was well taken care of for a prisoner. Eamon was well aware that, if he had truly wanted to, Jowan could have easily escaped with magic, but his hung head and quivering lips indicated he felt immensely guilty for his crimes. He still made Eamon's blood boil, however. After all, this man had tried to kill him. He restrained his temper.

"Jowan," Eamon addressed the accused. "What you have done is not in question. You tried to assassinate me and set into motion a series of events that nearly destroyed everything I cherish. What have you to say in your own defense?"

Jowan stood humbly, but he was not bowed. He had accepted his fate. "Nothing, my lord…other than to say I am sorry. I expect no mercy for what I have done."

Rose cocked an eyebrow at his response, but refrained from speaking. Instead, Eamon continued, "I see. Warden Rose, have you anything to say on Jowan's behalf?"

The young woman took a moment, scrutinizing the mage. "He seems earnest in his desire to repent, your grace."

"Oh? That is…unexpected," the arl stroked his beard again. "And what would you have me do? As the injured party, my ability to see the merciful path is…strained."

Rose looked to Alistair. Their eyes met, and they wordlessly seemed to agree upon something. Eamon noted the odd interaction. "Your grace, I would request that you turn him over to the Grey Wardens. If he is indeed earnest to repent, he may fight the Blight as penance."

"Are you invoking the Right of Conscription?" Eamon asked, raising a brow.

"No, your grace," Rose shook her head. "But the Grey Wardens are sorely lacking in members at the moment, and it was the last request of Dragonheart. It is, perhaps, too merciful a punishment, but it is ultimately a death sentence."

Eamon considered her points. It was true; there were only two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden at the present. He had never heard of another Blight fought with so few of their order. Besides, he had heard that the Qunari was fighting the Blight in penance as well, in addition to the elf, who was supposedly an Antivan Crow hired by Loghain to assassinate the Wardens. It was an interesting bunch, and only then did Eamon realize that Rose did not see Jowan as a bloodmage and a murderer, but as a potential ally that would be forever loyal for having been spared by her.

"True enough," he said slowly. "And wisely said." He addressed Jowan. "Jowan, I hereby release you into the custody of the Grey Wardens, to fight the Blight and spend the rest of your life consigned to fighting the darkspawn. May the Maker have mercy upon your soul."

"Thank you, my lord," Jowan bowed. He moved to stand behind Rose.

"Now, back to the matter of the Landsmeet," Eamon changed topics. "We should head to Denerim as soon as possible."

"I agree," Rose said. "We will be ready to leave tomorrow. Is that enough time to martial your forces?"

"Yes," he agreed. "I will send word to my horsemaster, Dennet, prepare mounts. Everyone in your party can ride, I assume? Besides the obvious exceptions, of course," he nodded toward the golem.

"I would rather fly, thank you," the Chasind girl said haughtily.

The dwarf looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. "All but two of us, then, will ride," Rose agreed.

"Very well. Until then, you and your companions have free reign of the castle. Make yourselves at home," Eamon dismissed them.

Rose bowed once again before turning away and herding the others out of the room. Eamon sighed, but began the laborious task of returning to his quarters. Now that he was up, and Isolde had been distracted by her duties as hostess, Eamon figured he should begin tending to his arling once again. Teagan had done a fine job running it in his absence, but for the moment, Eamon was still the arl and was ultimately responsible for his people and his land. He shuffled, with assistance from his cane, to his study and shut the door. The letters and ledgers had begun piling up. His steward would have taken care of the less important letters, usually petty requests from banns or merchants, but the larger decisions he left for Eamon. The stack was evidence of how long he had been indisposed. Harrumphing, Eamon sat heavily in the desk chair and began sorting through his correspondence. The arling was in worse shape than Eamon would have liked, but he had a few thousand trained troops still at his disposal. He only hoped it was enough.

Not an hour later, there was a hesitant knock on his door. Eamon didn't look up from the parchment he was scratching on. "Come in."

The door cracked open. There was a pause. Eamon finally pried his eyes away from the parchment. Alistair was poking his head in, looking for all the world like the little boy Eamon remembered. "Is now a bad time? I can come back later."

"Alistair," he put the quill back in the inkpot and stood stiffly. "No, now is fine. Please, come in."

Alistair entered and shut the door behind him, shoulders hunched over and an awkward expression on his face. He looked like he was trying to conceal the fact that he had grown out of his gangly teenager years. It had been years, after all, since Eamon had seen the lad. He had been so angry when Eamon had sent him for tutelage at the Chantry, and every time Eamon had visited him thereafter. Eamon had had little choice, however, not with Isolde making both of their lives difficult. She had resented Alistair and everything he represented, and she could not understand why Eamon loved the boy despite him being Maric's bastard. Further, she did not understand why Eamon didn't do more to quell the rumors about Alistair being his own bastard. Orlesian politics was far different from Ferelden ones, and Eamon had made a promise to try and give the boy as normal a life as he could, and to keep him safe.

In that, he had most certainly failed.

The lad, looking for all the world like Maric, said not a word, but came up to Eamon behind his desk and threw his arms around the arl in a bone-crushing hug. Eamon was taken aback. This was certainly not the reunion he had anticipated; he had expected Alistair to still be angry and resentful, or at least as petulant as he had been during the meeting in the great hall. He had not expected Alistair to be so…warm.

"I was worried that we would be too late," Alistair said, still gripping Eamon. "I was so relieved when we heard you had recovered. There was so much I wanted to tell you that I never got to…starting with 'I'm sorry'. I should have said that a long time ago. I'm sorry. About the way I left, and the way I treated you after…I was such an idiot."

Eamon finally returned the hug, patting Alistair on the back comfortingly. "I forgive you, Alistair. I understand. I…may not have handled it the best either, I will admit. I did not want to send you away, you know."

"I know," Alistair pulled away, then dug in his pocket and procured a familiar amulet covered in filled cracks. "Rose found this when we were clearing the castle of undead. I didn't know you had kept it, let alone fixed it."

Eamon recognized the amulet. It had been the only thing of Fiona's that she had left with the boy, and Eamon hadn't had the heart to destroy it. He was glad, in a way, that he had not. It had been a reminder of the playful boy that Eamon had thought of as a son, even in the years when they could not have been less close. Now, Alistair extended it to him, offering it back. Eamon took Alistair's hand and closed it around the amulet.

"Keep it," he instructed. "It was your mother's, and now it is yours. I kept it for you, Alistair, knowing one day you would want it back."

Alistair's eyes welled with tears, and he hugged Eamon again. This time, the arl was more receptive. "Thank you."

Eamon broke away and gestured for Alistair to grab a chair. The two sat across the desk from each other. Eamon asked Alistair about what had occurred in the years they had not spoken, and Alistair launched into the tale of how Duncan had swooped in to take Alistair into the Grey Wardens, where he had trained and finally found a family that had accepted him for who he was, independent of his heritage. That was, until they had been killed in the battle at Ostagar. He related the full tale of how he had met Rose and Dragonheart, and how they had embarked on their monumental task to gather the forces promised to the Grey Wardens by a set of ancient treaties and to heal Eamon. It was a fantastic tale, and as he told it, Alistair relaxed into a posture of a confident young man, his voice growing stronger and livelier as he spoke of their adventures. But his face fell when he got to the end.

"But on the way back to Orzammar," Alistair choked back tears, "we woke up one day, and Dragonheart was just…gone. There was blood leading away from the camp. We tried tracking it, but she and whoever took her had vanished. Duran said…Duran said that she was dead. There was nothing we could do. So we crowned Bhelen and came back here."

Eamon leaned back in his chair, mulling over Alistair's descriptions of his companions, hands laced together in his lap. It was obvious he thought the world of his fellow Wardens. Eamon suspected he had thought of Dragonheart as a mentor. He was still vague on Alistair's relationship with Rose, but he had an inkling. He balked at its implications, however.

"That is quite the tale," Eamon finally said, slightly overwhelmed. They had accomplished so much for a group so small and so inexperienced. "You have done so much, Alistair. You should be proud of what you have done."

"Yes, well, Rose and Dragonheart did most of the work," he dismissed his contribution, "I was there just to look pretty. And we still haven't defeated the Blight, so there's still much to do."

Eamon met Alistair's eyes. "There is. And much of this will rest on your shoulders. I hate to put you in this position, but you must be ready to be king."

Alistair sighed. "I know. I know. I really don't want it. But…if I have to, I will."

The arl raised an eyebrow. "Most would jump at the opportunity to be king. To be rich, to have power…"

The youth grimaced. "And have to sit through all those boring meetings about tariffs or protocol? No thank you. I'm much better at killing darkspawn and annoying Revered Mothers."

Interesting. Eamon viewed the lad in a new light. Initially, Eamon had disregarded Alistair as the same mischievous, stubborn youth he remembered, but it turns out that Alistair had grown up in the intervening years. He was still stubborn, and he was still mischievous, but he was both humble and confident. He did not seek power. That in itself was a quality Eamon could work with. There was an old philosophy that the best rulers were those that had no ambition to rule. Perhaps Alistair would fit this adage. There was a chance that, maybe, Alistair might be a better king than he had expected.

"You will have to find some way to make sitting through those boring meetings about tariffs and protocol interesting," Eamon coached him, "because there will be many of those when you are king."

"Great," Alistair grumbled, but did not protest. Yes, there was hope for the youth.

"But we will have plenty of time to discuss ruling in the days to come," Eamon ended the conversation. "For now, I must prepare to leave for Denerim."

"Right," Alistair agreed, preparing to leave. "And I should make peace with the arlessa. I believe it's long overdue."

Eamon smiled. "Oh, and Alistair? Could you have Warden Rose drop by when she has a moment? I would like to speak with her privately."

The way his eyes lit up when her name was mentioned was confirming his suspicions. "Of course, uncle."

Alistair closed the study door behind him. Eamon leaned back, pondering everything he had learned in the past few days. It was overwhelming, how much had occurred in such a short time span. Cailan, dead; Connor a mage; Rose Cousland, a Grey Warden; Loghain, a traitor; and Alistair, their best hope. This was beyond anything he thought possible. The way forward, however, was vague. He had met Queen Anora several times since her marriage to Cailan, and she was undoubtedly the power behind the throne. She was cunning, intelligent, and manipulative. But she had held Ferelden together despite Cailan. The neutral nobles would take that into account at the Landsmeet. They would rather see an experienced ruler on the throne than an untested bastard, even if Loghain was pulling the strings. It would be challenging to convince them to accept Alistair, though their work to unite the dwarves, Dalish, and mages into a coalition would help.

There was another knock at his door. "Come in."

The youngest child of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, Rose had the same bearing as her father, but all the fiery spirit of her mother. Eamon had no doubt that both her parents had encouraged her to hone her battle skills, instead of pursuing the more feminine arts that her contemporaries studied. It made her move with confidence, a sturdy grace of someone who knew she could handle herself. She had changed into a simple traveling dress, but she wore it with elegance, making the plain wool look like Orlesian silk. She curtsied before the desk.

"You wished to see me, your grace?" she asked, the picture of modesty.

"Please, in private, you may call me Eamon," he insisted. "Sit."

Rose gathered her skirt and sat properly. "As you wish, Eamon. What is it you wanted to see me about?"

"You have done a commendable job, to gather these forces and lead your people," he started. "However, I do have some…concerns, about your relationship with my nephew."

Her expression turned stormy. "You are concerned I am using him for his claim to the throne."

"I have noted the way he talks about you," Eamon pressed on. "He is quite taken with you. I know Alistair; he is an honest boy. I do not, however, know you."

"Understandable," she nodded, her eyes still piercing. "If I was enterprising, I would get him to fall in love with me and then become queen. Is that what you believe I am doing?" Eamon was taken aback by her directness. She threw a loose strand of hair over her shoulder imperiously. "He might be in love with me, but I am not using him, Eamon. I made no suggestions to him about being king; that was Dragonheart and, need I remind you, yourself. I have not even broached the subject of marriage. We are Grey Wardens, first and foremost. In becoming one, I have renounced my birth and my position, as he did. I love him for who he is, not for whose son he is. If he becomes king, then I will serve him as a Warden. I ask for no more, and I expect no more."

Eamon held up his hands placatingly. "I believe you. I just wanted to be sure. There are going to be insinuations in the coming days, rumors about you and him and me. We must be prepared to stand our ground."

For the first time, Rose relaxed. She looked worn thin. Eamon only then realized that the Warden was still a youth, even younger than Alistair if his memory served. "I know. I am prepared. I've been trying to prepare Alistair, but I don't think he understand quite how brutal court can be. And our attentions have been…less focused, as of late."

"The loss of Dragonheart," Eamon discerned.

Rose nodded. "I can barely keep them together, now. Zevran hasn't spoken more than a few words since we left Orzammar. Sten glowers at everyone. And Oghren keeps staring at her bottle." Rose sighed, the strain showing around her eyes. "How can I lead an army against the Archdemon if I can't even lead my team?"

"That is where you are wrong," Eamon corrected her. "You have been leading them. They are still here, with you. But you must allow them time to grieve."

Rose chewed on his words. "You're right. Thank you, Eamon. I should write to my father's banns and start gaining support for our cause, since I have the time. Is there anything else you needed from me?"

"No, I think you know what you need to do," Eamon concurred. "We shall speak later."

"Oh, and Eamon?" she interjected. "If we encounter Rendon Howe, I am going to kill him. He murdered my parents, my sister-in-law, my nephew, and all of my father's men. I thought you should know, before the Landsmeet."

She turned and left without waiting for a reply, leaving Eamon to contemplate more. It seems he had misjudged both of the Wardens. Rose was just as astute as Anora. This would be tricky. Having those two women competing for the throne could be deadly. But where Anora relied on her wiles to get her way, Rose was used to fighting for her goals. There was an honesty to Rose, an intensity that made people believe her and want to follow her. Eamon realized that Rose would be an excellent political tool. The neutral nobles would be easily persuaded once they met her in person and saw her ferocity, especially if coupled with Alistair's easy going manner and charm. How could they not?

What an interesting predicament this was shaping up to be.