Sorry it took me so long to update! A combination of hectic scheduling issues and writers block held me up on this chapter for a while. I just couldn't seem to get it to come together cohesively. Anyway, I want to give a special shout out to jugalettePENNER and Miltonia for all your encouraging words with each chapter. It has not gone unnoticed. And, as always, thanks to everyone who has been reading, subscribing, reviewing, etc. Hope you enjoy this latest!

Gwenna had no conception of what hour it was or even how much time had passed since she had been imprisoned in Denerim. She could no longer even count the days by the arrival of her meals, as they had stopped coming with any regularity once it was discovered that she had not been eating them. Nor did she have any idea where the other Grey Wardens had been taken. Upon their arrival at the Royal Palace, the Commander of the Grey and been separated from her companions and placed into a solitary cell deep in the bowels of the castle.

It felt like decades had passed since she'd had any kind of social interaction. The only people she had seen since her confinement had been the silent, hooded guards who sporadically delivered the colorless gruel that passed for food, and even more sporadically switched out the chamber pot. The warden commander's presence, however, was never acknowledged outright. They might as well have been cleaning out the stall of some caged beast, for that is most certainly what Gwenna felt as though she had become.

Presently the elf was amusing herself by feeding a mouse the stale remnants of her uneaten food. She put a small amount of the grain-based sludge into her hand and held it open for the rodent, who boldly climbed into her outstretched palm. She watched the tiny creature wistfully as it nibbled the small morsels then scurried off through a crack in the stone, back out into the wide world.

She sighed, her thoughts wandering for a moment to Anders. How had he survived, she mused, locked up like this for an entire year? How had he managed to keep his wits about him, having gone so long deprived of light and communication; without so much as a bath, or the comfort of another's touch? The Dalsih people had been subject to cruelty and oppression, but Gwenna had never borne witness to anything as barbaric as this. How could anyone, in good conscience, condone such treatment of another being? Why did anyone ever believe that such atrocities were carried out in the name of righteousness? Were people really so blind? She was suddenly overcome with a terrible hopelessness at the prospect of an unchanging future.

Gwenna was experiencing another melancholy as well, though she had been stubbornly pushing it out of her mind in hopes that it would eventually go away of its own accord. In truth, the pain had only nagged at her more persistently as the hours passed. It was an old wound, one that was almost healed, but had been opened anew, leaving a raw and bloody gash in the already weary flesh of her soul.

Despite her best defenses, thoughts of Alistair worried at the seams of Gwenna's emotions, threatening to splay them wide. After everything she and the king had shared, after everything Gwenna had given him, she could not wrap her mind around these present circumstances. How had this man allowed her to suffer yet another indignity at his hands? She was utterly devastated.

Gwenna remembered how Alistair had looked the last time she'd seen him. Standing in the courtyard at Vigil's Keep, preparing to ride forth for Denerim. The king had appeared unspeakably sad, like a beaten man. He'd had tears in his eyes as he said goodbye to her, telling her one last, helpless time that he loved her.

In the moment, Alistair's words had broken her heart, had left her feeling guilty and confused. Now, in retrospect, they made her angry. With a renewed sense of scorn, she thought about everything that had transpired between them. Mired in the darkness of her ossuary, it was as if the elf were viewing her past with a fresh pair of eyes. Why in Thedas had she ever let herself believe that she was at fault for his heartache? From the moment Gwenna had met Alistair, until the day she had departed Denerim, everything she had done, nay, everything she had been, had been for him. She had supported him unwaveringly, when others would have questioned his competence and his strength. She had sacrificed everything save her soul to put him on the throne because she had been convinced that it was his destiny, and because she'd had faith in the inherent goodness of his character. Yet, despite it all, here she was, filthy and starving, withering in the confines of a dungeon at his behest. Alistair had not even afforded her the courtesy of an audience.

Though it was a blatant slap in the face, and it hurt her more deeply than she cared to admit, above all else, Gwenna was angry with herself. She felt intensely gullible and naïve. How could she have been so stupid? How had she allowed this man to forsake her, not once, but twice? Why couldn't the king just leave her to her happiness? Why must he continually deprive her of everything she held dear?

A suffocating despair claimed Gwenna and she felt bitter tears cascading hotly down her face. Her sobs echoed loudly into the emptiness of her stone prison. As she sat curled onto herself, head burrowed into her knees, she found herself desperately wishing for her life to become forfeit. It was all, finally, too much for the fallen hero to take. The last stolid tendrils of her resolve had been snipped at the quick, and she succumbed to the desolate abyss of her sadness.

She wept for her family and for her bygone youth among the Dalish. She cried for the days of the blight, and for the loss of her innocence. She wept for Alistair, whom she'd loved and lost, and for the subsequent death of her idealism. She cried for lives lost and injustices perpetrated. She cried over promises made and never kept. Most of all she wept for Anders, and for herself. She mourned the loss of her second chance at happiness, which she had stumbled into so unexpectedly with the spirited mage. The fire of their love was only newly ignited, yet its flame may yet be extinguished, just as quickly as its spark had been realized.

Had she done this? In a misguided attempt to avenge the man she loved, had Gwenna inadvertently signed the death sentences of all the Grey Wardens? The line between right and wrong had become so blurred in recent months that the Warden Commander no longer knew with any certainty which side she was even on. Perhaps she was a shameless criminal after all. Maybe death and dishonor was no more than what she deserved.

Gwenna lay back against the dank hardness of the cell wall and watched runnels of rainwater trickle down through the cracks in the mortar, resigning herself to the inevitability of her fate. Being a celebrated hero, it turned out, was just as fleeting a thing as anything else in life. Still, one truth prevailed: the higher a person managed to climb, the harder that same person would invariably fall.

Anders watched the king depart, unsure of what to make of their conversation. That is, if it could even be called a conversation. Alistair, for his part, had said very little. Mostly, he had just listened to Anders speak, interjecting periodically with a few terse questions, but giving no discernable response otherwise. His last line of questioning, particularly, had confused the mage a great deal. The king had inquired, with some depth, into the details of his relationship with Namaya. Anders had answered the king's questions honestly, as he could think of no reason why he shouldn't, but what bearing the information had on the outcome of his present circumstances, the mage was unable to figure.

Another point of contention was sitting ill with Anders as well. Whether intentionally or not, the king had let slip an alarming tidbit. He had referred to Namaya as Rylock's only witness. That is precisely how he had worded it- 'Rylock's witness'. Why had he not said, 'the Chantry's' witness, or the 'Crown's witness'? Were the dead capable of having their own witnesses? Or, he wondered with a mounting dread, had that Templar fiend somehow survived? Something occurred to him that he had not thought of before. Had Namaya been present in the warehouse that night? Had she seen Gwenna's merciless display of brutality and come to Rylock's rescue? Suddenly, Anders' blood ran ice cold.

Gwenna was fighting off the disruptive images of an especially fitful sleep when she heard the cell door open. She sat up, rubbing her eyelids with her fists, trying to give her vision a chance to adjust to the brightness of torchlight. A figure had entered the cell, but she was unable, immediately, to make out specifics. As her eyes became acclimated to a brighter light than she'd seen in some time, the elf realized who it was.

"Alistair," she said numbly.

"Gwenna," he replied, a little breathlessly. "How are you holding up in here? Are you okay? You look very thin."

Gwenna's face darkened. "Alistair, if you were so worried about my well being why have you kept me down here for this long without so much as a proper audience with you? Have you become so beholden to the Templars that you are no longer able to see past their bias?"

"I apologize Gwenna," Alistair began, "I know how awful I must seem to you right now. It is important that I speak with you, however. About your fate, and about your mage."

Gwenna's anger flared. "I will not betray Anders to save my own life, if that's what you're suggesting! Despite what you think Alistair, Anders is a good man. One of the best, as a matter of fact. Nothing you say will turn me against him"

Alistair's expression was muddled with warring emotions. "I know," he said finally.

Gwenna started to protest then, realizing what he had said, stopped herself. "You what?" She asked dimly.

"I said, I know, Gwenna. As in, I agree with you. I am beginning to suspect that I have made a very grave mistake."

Gwenna could not contain her astonishment. Words eluded her.

Alistair continued. "I spoke with your mage earlier this evening. It was… enlightening, to say the least. You should know that he was willing to sacrifice himself to save you."

"Is that so?" She tried not to let it show on her face how much that statement caused her heart to flutter. "And what, pray tell, was your response?"

Alistair hesitated, fixing Gwenna with an appraising glance. Finally he answered.

"He tried to tell me that you had nothing to do with the murders. He told me that he used his magic to cloud your mind while he used your weapons to dispatch the Templars."

Gwenna nodded. Anders had suggested that alibi to her previously, though she'd had no intention of corroborating the lie.

Alistair continued, "Gwenna, I have seen Rylock's wounds. I know there is no way that mage made those cuts. As a matter of fact, there is only one person I know who is skilled enough with a dagger to exact that kind of precision. Also, you forget I was trained as a Templar. I read magical signatures, and the only thing I sense on you is healing magic, and perhaps trace amounts of some battle magic." He shook his head, perplexed at that last bit, but let it go.

Gwenna and Alistair stared at each other, unflinching.

Eventually Alistair said, "That man was ready and willing to die for you. When I was faced with the same choice, I compromised my morals to find a way around it. Not only am I compelled to agree with you that the mage is a good man, Gwenna, I believe that he is likely a better man than I."

Gwenna was silent for a long time, regarding Alistair with unadulterated shock, but also with a renewed respect.

Very softly she said, "I think you finally just became the man you're supposed to be, Alistair."

Alistair's smile was sad. He looked at her with a heart-wrenching tenderness. "It's a shame that it couldn't have happened sooner." Then, forcibly restraining his emotion he said, "There is one other point of business to discuss"

Gwenna furrowed her brow, puzzled. "What might that be?"

Alistair's face twisted. "I need to know why."

"Why? Why what, exactly?"

"Why did you murder Rylock so brutally? I cannot allow myself to believe that you would do something so heinous without good reason. So convince me, Gwenna. Why did you do it?"

Gwenna sighed heavily. She had serious reservations about spilling Anders' deepest secrets to his rival, but she realized in that moment it might be the only way to save him. Reluctantly, she divulged the gory details of Anders' sordid past with Rylock.

Alistair's listened intently, his eyes growing increasingly troubled as Gwenna spoke. When she had finished, the king nodded slowly.

"I see," he said. "That does explain some things."

Gwenna's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

Alistair pursed his lips. When he looked at her his face was guarded.

"The elf, Namaya, do you know her?" He asked.

Gwenna felt herself bristle, but answered, "I know of her, yes."

"How much do you know about the extent of her relationship with your mage?"

"His name is Anders, Alistair," she corrected tartly. "I am aware that they were lovers, if that's what you mean."

Alistair nodded. "It would seem that Anders has a way of inspiring quite an intensive passion in those who know him, for better or worse. It seems that once her anger over their—situation- had waned, she had second thoughts about turning him into the Templars."

Gwenna sucked in a breath. Rage flared red-hot within her.

"Try not to judge her to harshly, Gwenna. A lover scorned is often prone to poor judgment and rash decisions, I should know," said Alistair ruefully. "In the end, she too came forward with some revealing information about Rylock. Though not to the extent of your confession, Namaya's testimony was likewise incriminating. It is clear to me now that the Templar was corrupt. I can't believe I didn't see it before. I had thought it odd that Rylock wore Anders' phylactery on a chain around her neck, like a souvenir almost, but I just pushed it aside. I suppose I was seeing only what I wanted to see."

"She kept Anders' phylactery on her person!" Gwenna cried, appalled. "Where is it now?"

Alistair hesitated. "It is still with her," he said.

"What?" Demanded Gwenna. "You mean it went with her to the pyre?"

The king would not look at her. "Rylock lives, Gwenna."

Gwenna felt the blood drain from her face. She was suddenly very glad to be sitting down.

"What did you say?" She hissed.

Alistair looked her in the eyes then. His voice was quiet.

"Rylock was rescued, Gwenna, by Namaya," he told her. " But, as I said, she had second thoughts about that in the end. It is my intention to set this thing right."

" By having Namaya testify against Rylock? " She asked. "The Chantry will not be easily convinced. Not with the Templar alive. We're still as good as dead."

The gaze the king bestowed upon the commander held a gentleness that was nearly painful. He took her small hand in his, eyes glistening with moisture."

"Gwenna, I owe you a thousand apologies," he said earnestly. "I realize now how selfish I've been. I know that I have set this tragedy in motion but I promise, it is not to late to see it undone. I understand that you no longer have any reason to do so, but I am asking you to trust me. I will see this wrong righted, I swear it."

Gwenna looked the king square in the eyes, and her gaze held a challenge.

She said, "Don't tell me about it Alistair. Show me."