Whatever We Were Before, Battlefield, Burning Heart, Heathens.

THIS CHAPTER FOUGHT ME EVERY STEP OF THE WAY BUT I WON NOT IT I WON ME IT WAS ME.

Edit: I recant everything I said about not updating until next Monday (July 4th) because not only did I get 35 pretty much done in one day but I also have Friday (July 1st) off for Canada day. So. Wednesday update is go?

Disgrace of Redcliffe

Consort of the Inheritor

"In the name of Teyrna Anora Mac Tir, Queen of Ferelden, you will open the gates of Redcliffe."

The road to Recliffe Village was cut between the rolling hills and fells of the Hinterlands. At its highest point before the descent to Lake Calenhad's shores, there was a defensive gate meant to protect against bandits and highwaymen. They had withstood the Darkspawn for long enough that after the Blight the guardhouse had been restored and the gates rebuilt with a stone wall and heavy doors lashed with iron.

"My Lord, we shall not." The guardsman sounded young, his voice wasn't firm enough for a standoff like this. Soren's sympathies were limited as he let his voice rise from under his helmet, horse standing proud and tall under him.

"Do you bar a Sword of our Queen from crossing her sovereign lands?" He challenged loudly, "Open the gates or surrender your honour!"

"In the name of the Arl of Recliffe!" A new, much older voice shouted from the stone gatehouse. "Wrongly imprisoned by the Tyrant Widow of Gwaren, we shall not bend!"

It was a clear, cold day. The rain had washed away enough of the snow that it had frozen the trees and turned the road to a wet slop. Soren dismounted in front of his flank of twenty Silver Order soldiers, more warriors of South Reach spread in a long column a hundred-strong behind him. Arl Bryland was clad in red steel plates and sat proudly atop his own horse, black beard woven with delicate braids. Soren looked to the other nobleman briefly, well aware that Bryland had already told him that they would need a battering ram and several hours to beat down the gates if the guardsmen wouldn't yield. This was where Bryland expected to fight the longest.

That was not how Soren preferred to do things. Bryland had brought a hundred men from his lands, the Silver Order of Amaranthine had half their numbers but double the pride under Captain Renth's command, and Sigrun and had slipped nearly thirty Grey Wardens through these same gates over the last week, Nathaniel and Zevran had already been in the village for longer than that. Nathaniel's men would attack from within the village if signalled and Oghren had rendezvoused with the main host yesterday when Soren arrived. Renth was behind him on her own horse, sword and shield ready.

Although scattered, they were a force well over two-hundred strong, a third of which were Grey Wardens.

The Inquisition had tried to answer a cry for aid from Arl Teagan, but Soren and Bryland, bearing Alistair's seal and Anora's pennant, had rightly told them to back down. These were matters for the Fereldan Landsmeet and, considering the politics of the Anderfels and Orlais, Soren was confident his Wardens could act as he saw fit without fearing reprisal from the First Warden. Inquisitor Lavellan had no business interfering.

"The Grey Wardens of Ferelden will free our brother, imprisoned by the traitor Eamon Guerrin!" Soren announced. He cut a quick gesture for a flank and Renth's men were ready to pull forward past South Reach's line. Swords and shields, enough cover from the Silver Order to protect him as a weave of magic spread through the air immediately around him, a prismatic shield in case one of their enemies was bold enough to take a shot at Soren from above the gate. "The Silver Order of Amaranthine will recover my son, stolen from his mother's arms by Madwoman Isolde of Orlais! Amaranthine will heed their Majesty's summons to spare Redcliffe Village from the devastation of another apostate born to House Guerrin and sequestered with demons! Open the gates!" He took his staff in hand, swung the black iron down and between his arms, folding the staff through the air with its bloodstone head crackling with heat. It was a slow, steady dance.

"You'll take the Black City itself before Redcliffe falls!" Was the taunt.

"Open the gates!" Last warning. There was fire licking at his staff and scarlet marks dancing across his awareness, weaving patterns of violence in a maze of dizzying fury.

Bolts and arrows began to fire from the gates, punching shields and scraping armour. Renth called a firm hold on her men to keep them steady, and Soren took a knee with a heavy two-handed slam of his staff against the ground. The winter air hissed and the white sky bled scarlet, two wicked lines of hate cutting the road and dancing down under the seam of the barred doors.

Fire. Fire. A cyclone that roared and screamed, erupting from the sodden ground with geysers of steam. One devastating pattern woven across the ground, its mate spinning rapidly twenty feet overhead, everything between them heat and pain and fire. Cured wood that hissed, popped and splintered to black, iron that screamed and bent, stones that were blown through as mortar turned to dust and the structure buckled. Limbs that were just meat cooked on the bone, burnt to char and bubbling with screams and final breaths stolen by the inferno.

Men who ran like rats, pulling back and seeking shelter when the Archmage twisted his staff behind him, snapping his hand to send the weapon spinning end over end in a wheel of crimson power. He caught and thrust the head forward, anger bleeding from his eyes and his own fire wrapping warm and ready down his arms. A blast of raging magic warped the air and struck the centre of the first inferno, blowing apart wood and iron and stone, setting barrels aflame and blowing down corpses. Magic roared and devoured without smoke.

Wreathed in hungry flames he moved forward, staff-head swinging low across the wet ground, boots splashing in the winter-soaked ground. A desperate soul with a sword raised lumbered charred and smoking from the swirling fire. His legs gave out and he collapsed in a bloody, haggard mess at Soren's feet without attacking. He made a direct point of stepping down over the corpse just to feel the armour compress and the last of the life bleed out.

"Urthemiel fell before me; Redcliffe will follow."

When he called the flames down there was noise and resistance from the road: Soren let the Silver Order overtake him and heard Bryland call a forward march. Fire blasted high from his staff and threaded over his Captain's raised shield, blowing through a fortification of wood and militiamen so Amaranthine's soldiers could fall upon them without further help. The fighting was fast and frantic and bloody, magic making short work of barricades hastily constructed. Stone and brick walls were harder to fell but fire was frightening, and fear was a good distraction to let the Silver order flank pockets of militiamen and strike fast and hard.

Twenty men and women under Renth's command formed a spear that plowed forward, thirty more under a lieutenant's guidance to rush into the wake of the first line and reinforce them with a second wave against the resisting fighters. Soren's magic was launched from the chaotic space between the two waves, a few steps ahead and just as many behind. All of this had been discussed beforehand: it was Amaranthine's War, the Grey Warden's mission, and South Reach's noble obligation. That was how they moved down from the destroyed gate and into the falling hills and twisted roads of Old Redcliffe, the half that had not survived the Blight. First the Silver, then the Grey, with South Reach back and sitting pretty with their men unmolested by the fighting. Soren was willing to honour South Reach's very real support, but not to watch men and women die for a fight that wasn't theirs. Kieran belonged to Amaranthine and Connor to the Wardens. Eamon's head was a promise Soren would make Alistair keep.

The village was taken by surprise, no chance to fortify against the attack coming down the hill when there was already shouting and the clash of steel echoing out under the cold winter sun from the colourless Wardens who began their attack as soon as the blasts from Soren's magic were heard. On the road and bearing down on the village, formations fell and waves broke into clusters of fighting groups. Teams of three to six watching one another and engaging against enemies in similar bands. Wardens mingled with the Silver Order and the Redcliffe Militia buckled and broke under the pressure, Soren's fire lashing the stubborn ones again and again until they yielded.

"Mercy for the fallen!" Soren shouted, his reminder clearing the din of screaming men. He reigned in his flames and would not let them catch on the village as it formed from the hills and slopes of Lake Calenhad's rippling shore. Men who threw down their arms and dropped to their knees were spared, villagers were not to be harmed: there was a difference between a soldier wielding a sword and an angry child throwing stones, one would be cut down and the other scared back into her mother's arms.

Nathaniel's hidden Wardens betrayed and attacked the militia from within their own barricades, cutting throats and disarming defenses. The chantry doors were wide open as the army spilled down into the settlement and the villagers were harried inside. The Wardens shouted and flashed their weapons in the bright winter sun and stripped blades and arms from the militiamen before they were allowed to pass into the sanctuary. No weapons, no blades, but mercy for anyone who was wise enough to take it.

Runners from the village who fled to the castle were allowed to carry their frantic message to the Arl. By noon Redcliffe was secure and there was no word from the fortress draped across the looming mountain.

They were not here to ravage or pillage the Arling, but armies had needs and they were for food and shelter. Stalls were dismantled for their pieces, food and medicines taken to see to the care of the men. Grey Wardens had no business destroying property or setting fire to homes, least of all in the dead of winter. Larders were not ransacked and Soren's lieutenants kept close control over who was allowed to take what with Oghren and Renth ensuring businesses were taken advantage of long before homes could be considered. The inn and tavern were swarmed with soldiers, and anyone with nothing to do was given a task to keep looting and misbehaviour to a minimum. Anyone hiding in their homes as the soldiers combed the village were told to either stay inside, or were taken to the Chantry.

And the village was combed. Every closet, larder, cellar, attic, and bedroom. Every back house and shed, every sanctum and loft. Anyplace where a young boy could be kept prisoner was found and searched. Zevran had already told him Kieran was not in the village and the Crows he'd found had been the team hired to hold Connor, but Soren had to be sure. He had to be certain that his son and his captors were not hiding right under his nose!

Soren spoke to the Revered Mother of Redcliffe through the bars of the Chantry door: it was locked from the inside, not without.

"You were our Champion!" the old woman shouted at him. "You saved us from the Blight and now you rain terror upon the good people of Redcliffe! For shame, elf, for shame! The Maker's Bride did not free your forefathers from Tevinter only to see you turn around and-"

"Eamon Guerrin," he interrupted the racist old bat. "-has been found guilty of sabotage against the Arling of Amaranthine, abduction and torture of a Grey Warden, and the kidnapping of my son. Queen Anora herself has blessed this campaign and I have shown you mercy."

"Your lies will not shake the faithful! The Arl will defend us!"

"You have a chantry hall full of children and families who need food, Revered Mother. You have wounded men in need of aid. You have fires that need fuel for burning. I will provide all of these things and more and there is gold enough in Castle Redcliffe to reimburse the craftsmen and merchants for what the army has taken."

"I will not be bartered with by an abomination who-"

"Then you will elect someone with greater sense to speak on your behalf, because Redcliffe has fallen and the castle is silent." And he left the old woman to her congregation and their unanswered prayers.

Wounded, though there were not many, were tended at the inn. Compounder Ansera was given a fire, table, and the right to command two Amaranthine militiamen and their squire to aid him in seeing to the men's immediate needs. The Formari was not here to set up shop, but even before Zevran had told them of Connor's poor condition inside the castle, one of the few things Soren could imagine keeping a stubborn mage down was poison. Ansera was told to take whatever the village apothecary had to use as his own, and the dead-eyed elf had simply nodded and settled down to work.

Maps were brought forward in the tavern's gutted hall. Most of the sheets were rough and crudely drawn, but orders were dispatched cleanly from over them.

"There is a secret tunnel from the castle out under the ruins of the old windmill," Soren explained, marking the location on the finer of their maps with a small red stone. "I have five soldiers guarding the entrance. Connor's family knows about it so it may already be sealed to keep us from exploiting it, but until we get help with the gates it's our only other entrance."

"Help?" Bouclier asked, but Soren chose to ignore the comment. What she wanted to hear was what followed:

"Nathaniel, according to Zevran Connor is being kept in the family wing: south wing, highest level." He continued, "The Crow cell responsible for holding him has been dismantled, but Zevran was never able to isolate the Talon and execute him like his lieutenants. Expect him to be skilled, tactical, and incredibly dangerous while guarding our Warden. Connor will be drugged and I doubt he will be able to walk. If he's dead, get a signal fire going so we can put everything to the torch. Kill the Talon, rescue Connor."

"And should we find the Arl's family in the family wing?" Nathaniel asked, arms folded and dark eyes looking down at the map. He'd fought well but was grim at the reminder that Connor might not be on the other end of this mission.

"Keep Rowan calm," he cautioned. "She's a mage child and her home is under attack. Find some way to knock her out because restraints won't stop her magic if she wants badly enough to get away. As soon as you have her and know what's become of Connor, bring them both back to me."

"And the Arlessa?"

"Find my son."

"Do I choose who to take with me?" Not this time.

"Bouclier and Velanna." Don't give him that look. Yes, he was sending Velanna into a tunnel, and no, he wasn't going to compromise on it. "You trained him, Nathaniel, bring him back." Those words silenced any argument Nathaniel may have had in him. He nodded resolutely with a fist to his heart.

"Yes, Commander." And:

"Before you say a word, Warden Hawke, I was getting to your orders." He could feel Carver's control fraying from across the table, and found the other Warden with a reproachful look. "You're going with them, but on a different mission."

"Your command, my lord?" He asked, but it was not nearly polite enough.

"Bring me Ser Perth's head." That satisfied glimmer was what Soren wanted to see, and Carver matched Nathaniel's salute. "Nathaniel, I don't care about preserving the integrity of the lock on that passage. Have Velanna tear up as much of the hillside as she has to until she finds that tunnel."

"So that's why you…" Because her magic was best-suited to the task? Yes. He had no other reason to send her underground again at such a crucial moment.

"You have my commands, Wardens. Follow them. Rest and prepare yourselves: we attack Redcliffe Castle at dawn and I want you to use that distraction to get inside."

Salutes answered the dismissal, but Soren turned from the table and was already facing his next order of business. One of Bryland's knights had a fist to chest, head down in a respectful nod and he spoke before Soren's Wardens were finished getting ready to leave.

"We've received a message from the castle, your Grace." The man dutifully reported, and there was intrigue around the table.

"Let me hear it then."

The soldier nodded and then took a step back and out of the way, gesturing for two more of Bryland's men to come forward with not just the message, but the messenger as well.

A Knight of Redcliffe was brought into the repurposed tavern, weapons seized and arms bound behind their back. White plate armour and helmet embossed with Redcliffe's tower, crimson robe of the order falling below the steel tassets to the warrior's calves. They were struggling, but only to avoid being physically dragged forward.

"Unless you've come with an announcement of surrender, I can't imagine why Arl Eamon would risk one of his Knights like this." Soren didn't expect the knight to respond to that comment, nodding to the men holding him so they brought the warrior down onto both knees in front of Soren. He was young, and almost looked like he was shaking under all that heavy armour. With a small gesture of Soren's hand, the knight's helmet was removed.

Ah, not a he after-all, but a young woman with thin, russet brown bangs tangled over her face and escaping the knotted braid behind her head. She wasn't bruised or beaten, but her breathing was heavy and skipping, shoulders heaving and pale eyes wild with fury.

"You carry a message," Soren stated. "I will hear it. What word from Redcliffe Castle, Ser Knight?"

"I- come with two announcements," the knight's breaths failed as she spoke, breaking her words in half so they clattered and chipped against each other. "One from Arl Eamon Gue-rrin of Redcliffe, the other- other-" Her voice went ragged, pale eyes staring past Soren's knees to the legs of the table behind him. "The other from the mouth of my commander; my father; Ser Brendan Perth of Redcliffe."

The shock stilled the quiet room, and the disbelief brought an open grin across Soren's face. Oh, this was rich, this was a decadence he could not have hoped for.

"Ser Perth the Coward sends his own blood into the company of men who have sworn him dead?" He asked, taking the distressed woman's chin in hand, and when she resisted he made sure his scarred fingers bit hard into her jaw. His smile fell in a way that left his teeth bare, his eyes wide, he hoped it scared her. "What word does Ser Perth the Lesser carry from her father the Wretched?"

The young Ser Perth took a deep, shaking breath, curling her lips as the rims of her eyes began to glow red with shining tears. She was young, but not untested: there were scars scattered across one of her cheeks, signs of either some clawed animal or a great strike from a blast. There was fear in her, but more importantly there lingered a vain and quickly dying sense of hope.

"A command," she gasped in his hold, but he did not release her. "For my heart and your hearing. A command that I, Ser Rebecca Perth, Sworn Knight of Redcliffe and Shield of House Guerrin renounce-" Her faith broke, or what counted for it. Eyes growing wide as if in pain, the knight struggled on her knees, tears running freely as she choked on the oath demanded by her father.

"That- that I forswear my loyalty to House Guerrin," the knight shuddered, closing her eyes tight as she sobbed. Soren's grip on her relented, allowing her to speak with her head bowed. "I cast down my shield, unable to bear the standard of those who commanded my father to dishonour his family. Like his father before him, mine will die in service to his Lord and Arl, but I am henceforth lordless and disgraced. I was commanded to trade loyalty for life, and in doing so am left a shadow of my forefathers' achievements." A heavy oath, and one Soren didn't want to be impressed by and yet… was. Most Knights would throw themselves on their swords first, but it was different when it was a parent giving the order for their own explicit reasons.

"Ser Perth surrenders you," Soren clarified, wrapping his own mind around the move, "because I've already won this battle. He's ready to die defending Eamon but not to throw everything into the fire. Before I accept your surrender, Madame Perth, what word does the Disgrace of Redcliffe send?"

"That your army," the warrior had wrestled her sobbing breaths back under control, blood-shot eyes rising back up to see him with tears still fresh and running. She wasn't ashamed of her pain, but he disliked how easily she spoke to him now, the venom she used would do her no favours. "Has until dawn tomorrow to withdraw from Redcliffe Village, leaving our people and countryside unmolested as you return from whence you came. You have until dawn, Arl Surana, or the body of your son will be dragged through the blood and snow at your-"

He backhanded her with the full swing of his arm. His ring cut her cheek open with a wide red gash, and the flames that birthed slow and dark from his elbow and crawled up to enrobe his fingers frightened back the two men who had been holding her. Madame Perth stayed on her knees where she was bound, defiant and unbroken. Soren was quite ready for a repeat of what it meant to taunt him, down to the screaming and the reek of burning hair.

"Rejoice, my friends!" Zevran's voice chimed like a chantry bell. "Now we know where the boy is!" Of all the inane things to- "Gentlemen, take our friend to the Chantry. I am certain the Revered Mother will be happy to accept our army's good-will when she sees so fine a young woman in danger of such an unpleasant scar. Let her walk, she has given us such a pleasant boon." No.

Bryland's men wisely chose to wait and look to Soren before daring to move on Zevran's order. He nodded to them, accepting his friend's interference and turning away with his flames smothered. He listened as the young woman was dragged to her feet and hauled from the tavern without another word to his back.

Zevran was very close to him, his voice was low, and it was clear by his missing smile that he knew to explain himself for that.

"Kieran is not in the castle; we know this," Zevran explained himself in a low voice. The black fur and leather of his wintery armour and cloak disguised the fact that he had one hand raised and open asking Soren to keep calm. "You are watching the only two possible ways in and out of the complex meaning the only other way to send an order is by air. We have them."

"Zevran-" He had yet to make his fucking point-

"Soren!" His friend hissed, teeth clenched. "Ravens do not fly to lowly hovels and old cave mouths, they fly to landmarks." Because most only flew in one direction to begin with; back to a place they'd been raised, and-

"Bring me a map of the Hinterlands!" Soren shouted, and Zevran was quick to repeat the order as they both swept back to the table. The Wardens were still gathered after watching the exchange with Perth's daughter and were quick with the task.

"We are no more than a few hours away," Zevran was thinking out-loud as maps were unrolled, cast aside, traded for wider, more detailed drawings. "To signal at dawn and hope to deliver on the threat before the castle is completely overwhelmed- we are closer than we have been in weeks."

"But where?" A day's ride in any direction save straight out across Lake Calenhad still left-

"Fort Connor!" Warden Athras' hand came down hard across the table, fingers planted across the sketched box of the old fortification south-east of Redcliffe, high in the hills. "It's defensible with enough sound walls left over to shelter in, close to good hunting and remote enough for no one to notice smoke from a fire." Athras had been sent to Redcliffe by Bouclier to gather information before Soren had even known to march home to Vigil's Keep. There was no reason to question or doubt what the junior Warden was telling them now.

"Warden Athras and I were within sight of it after only a day's hard march from the village." Hassick spoke up from his place at the table. He was there when Athras walked her hands back and stood up straight again. "Even if it's not where they are, it's within range and a sensible place to tether the birds."

"Are we all just going to ignore the splendid irony of holding Surana's son in a place named after Eamon's?" Nathaniel cut in, speaking to them all.

"Zevran," Soren looked to him and found a firm nod.

"Warden Athras and Warden Hassick, do you ride with me?" Zevran asked. The two were half-way through their salutes when they both froze and looked at Soren first. Marker's Mercy, as if they had to ask.

"Go!" He ordered, startling the pair so they thumped their chests hard with pledges he didn't listen to.

"Watch your back with that Talon around," Zevran warned him, but Soren should have been going with them, he should have been headed straight from here to- "Focus, my dearest friend." Zevran's voice interrupted his thoughts before they could gain ground against him, words from Antiva that he had to listen hard in order to understand properly. "Focus and destroy the ones who brought us to this. And will you not send Morrigan our way?" He laughed in Trade again, "I am certain she would enjoy taking a bite out of the unfortunate souls acting out irresponsible orders."

"Just find him," Soren begged, hands clumsy as he found the fold through his robes and armour to withdraw a small drawstring pouch and force it into Zevran's hand. His awareness of the ring hidden inside the bag was muted, but the woven black iron wasn't strong enough to know who it was meant to react with, only that it was being held apart from the other two members of the trio.

"We'll storm the Black City itself if we have to." Go. "You will hear from us soon. Wardens!" Zevran turned from him and carried Athras and Hassick away in his wake, the two junior members of the Order pulling on gloves and readying cloaks and weapons for the cold journey ahead of them. Soren should have been going with them…

"Commander," Oghren grumbled from the table, forcing Soren to look back down at the maps and information unfurled before him. "You can tell me to shut up since it's not my place, but as much as I'd like to watch Morrigan make short work of Redcliffe Castle's fabled choke-point and double gates, she can't be in two places at once and we've already got you here in the village."

"I can't explain something that complicated to her," he admitted, and he felt the ring in Zevran's grasp cut around behind the building, looking for horses. "I can't give her the name and I don't know Fort Connor or the Hinterlands well enough to picture it." Soren had his left hand tightly clenched in front of him, pressing his fingers together trying to feel the ridges of his own ring dig into his burnt skin. She scolded him whenever he decided to wear the band under his gauntlets because of the danger it posed in a fight, but the ring worked best when worn, not on a chain around his neck.

He could feel Zevran's at the edge of the village. He could feel Morrigan to the east of them, somewhere cold and wet along the coast of Lake Calenhad. She was fatigued and although she was doing her best to hide it he could sense both her pain and her longing for this to be over. Now there was also resentment stirred by him daring to feel hope but remain unable to explain to her why. If he hoped too hard she would start to feel it too, and once she realized he'd given Kieran's ring to someone to carry forward, maybe she would follow it?

"I haven't given Morrigan an order since the Battle of Denerim, Oghren. Whatever her actions, she chooses them for herself." And whether she chose to sail ahead of the army and make one more assault on Redcliffe Castle, or tear off after Zevran and find their son, Soren wouldn't fault her. Both ways were the right choice. He just didn't understand why she felt angry now. He couldn't place the cause for why when he tried to feel more of her through the keepsake on his hand she snapped back intentionally with ire. Was she angry with him or in general? Was she under attack?

"Well just tell her she's better off choosing to go to Fort Connor," his Constable complained. "Between Mahanon's Dalish magic, Bryland's siege weapons two days behind us, and your spell power we'll be just fine taking down that castle with its walls full o' holes." Redcliffe had faced far more than a few ballista and mages in the past, but optimism was still what they… right…

"Soren?"

"She's moving." He dropped the words and turned away from the table, looking back quickly with a: "Stay inside!"

She was very angry and moving very quickly. The distance shrank rapidly and Soren hurried out past working soldiers and scurrying servants. She was moving too fast for a bird or a wolf, he'd only ever felt Morrigan move so swiftly when she-

"Bryland!" Easy to find: standing under the grey height of the griffon statue dedicated to the Hero of Ferelden in the middle of Redcliff's village square. "Arl Bryland! Order your men to lay down all weapons!"

"Have you lost your mind?" Bryland looked at him with open shock, scandalized by the idea. "Warden Commander, your fear for your son is well-grounded, but we cannot end this entire campaign-"

"I'll have Eamon's head for threatening my boy- this is about the dragon!" He startled the other man with that announcement.

"It is coming?" He asked, because of course they knew there was a dragon in the area: the rumours and carnage had been Soren's entire reason for sending Morrigan on this path!

"Yes,"

"Men!" Bryland shouted, and Soren jumped to stop him. "To arms, men! A beast-"

"No!" He reached the Arl and raised his staff high over their heads, igniting the bloodstone crystal and letting it shine like a crimson beacon at the foot of the statue, catching attention and holding it tight. "The dragon attacks Redcliffe Castle only! Any man who fires on her answers to me!"

"Surana it's a dragon for Andraste's Sake!" Bryland spat at him, "I'll not have my men burned to ashes and eaten for some-"

"She only attacks the castle, my lord," Soren cut back, letting his staff fall to its proper height and smothering the light with a thought. "Kieran is not just the son of some el'vhen mage. His mother is a Chasind sorceress, a Witch of the Wilds, and whatever power you think I have by way of the Circle Morrigan's magic is as vastly different as the mountains are from the sea." South Reach was south of most places, stories of the Chasind and their witches were as constant as the Chant of Light. Bryland did not bite his tongue per-say, but he certainly furled it up tight in his mouth.

They could hear the wind beginning to rush, the distant bellow and rip of great wings sheering through the air.

"Men and women of South Reach!" Soren called, "Warriors of Amaranthine! Grey Wardens of Ferelden! Seek the warmth of this village, leave the square, and keep your weapons down! The High Dragon of the Hinterlands has done more damage to Redcliffe Castle than entire armies from the past! Respect the Maker's creations and let her roam in peace!"

"You heard him! To shelter!" Bryland agreed, but he did not give Soren a comforting look.

Morrigan's anger was burning hot and bright at the fringes of his awareness, and when the dark, lethal edge of a dragon's spined body ripped into view across the lakeside boundary of the village there was a panicked stir from horses and men alike. Soldiers did as ordered and fell back behind houses and alley-ways, clearing the square and keeping their heads down. It wasn't cowardice to hide from a dragon, it was good sense.

Morrigan's wingtip cut across the water as she spread her full span and wheeled smooth and powerful across the water, cutting upward and letting a grotesque roar screech from her mouth. Truly, without the ring binding them together Soren wouldn't have known it was her, but he saw her fatigue as she plowed up through the cold air and slowed just enough as she approached the castle from below that she could dig her claws into the stone walls. She folded her wings on purpose, dragging and ripping with all four limbs to carry herself up, massive stones and sheets of old mortar spilling behind her and dropping into the lake. But there were also arrows, bricks, barrels and other debris pelting her from above.

How dare they? But the castle was under attack and they had had weeks of this to learn how she moved and what she was capable of, weeks to figure out the only way to resist even if it wasn't enough to stop her. Soren clenched his jaws and tried not to let his teeth grind, but the anger was licking at him anyways. How dare they? He'd leave the castle as nothing but a grand ruin when he was done. Let Alistair tax and tithe Amaranthine until they bled to rebuild it, he didn't care: he'd burn it.

She reached the top of the wall where there were blades and more arrows, launching through the air and assaulting one of the towers, popping the windows with her claws and then taking to the sky, wheeling up with her wings ready to unfurl and beat down the arrows and spears that came flying after her. Soren expected her to fly away, but instead she turned the leap into a dive towards one of the four gate towers. Redcliffe Castle had two rows of gates before the main courtyard, stacked one behind the other, and Morrigan flew straight for the outer ring. She brought her hind legs forward and crashed directly into one of the towers, forcing the whole structure to buckle and crack before her wings beat and her body's massive weight rolled over the structure and forced it to collapse. She followed through by coming onto all four limbs and leaping forward, clearing the bridge and vanishing into the covered road winding down the high hill from castle to village.

"Your mistress," Bryland gasped behind him, the two of them still standing under the height of the griffon statue. "Summoned that?"

"In a way," he answered, but there was a tug of powerful magic that quashed any satisfaction that answer might have given him. Why was she using magic? Why was she in this much pain? Why was she struggling to-? "No… No, they didn't stop her." They did not. They had not.

"Surana?"

She was not afraid. She was angry, frustrated and in pain that became more and more obvious the closer she came. Morrigan was not afraid, but Soren was and that fact just fuelled her anger with him. So what if it was a crutch to make her own spells and actions easier to manage? She was angry and she would stay angry and there was a much smaller shift in the magic she used.

No dragon reappeared around the winding bend of the castle road, no great wyvern soared over the last principle gate at the base of the hill leading into the village. Soren said as much to Bryland: the dragon was gone.

"Over the other edge of the mountain?" The Arl asked him, and Soren lied and said he didn't know.

He saw the raven come gliding down, but the bird barely cleared the last gate and Soren was already running to meet it. Her wing-beats were uneven and he threw a handful of glittering white magic down across the stones to catch her when Morrigan failed to land, she just dropped from several inches high and lay still on the ground. But she didn't change form again, she was not dead, she was still in an animal's body and she was not dead. She wasn't. She was not dead. She would not die for a few slings and arrows!

"Why didn't you come to me first?" he gasped, skidding hard and dropping to his knees, magic folding and twisting around his fingers so he could spread his hands and place a dome of light over her small body. Feathers moved with her breaths and there was blood streaked down her back. "Stubborn shrew, you should know better." When he slid one hand down under her head, trying to lift her body onto his arm, the bird tried to jab her beak down and bite his elbow but only succeeded in hurting her own mouth against the silverite. He was thankful she still has enough energy to argue with him.

He dispelled the glyph but eased her with a hand weaving warm white light down over her back. Her wings were limp over his arm, body cradled securely and head tucked towards him, her golden eyes closed as he took her back to the tavern. Bryland had resumed giving orders in the village square, someone else was talking to the villagers inside the chantry, and Soren had given enough instructions to his Wardens that he told the ones who approached him that he would see to it later.

"Have hot water and a meal brought up to my room." He told the Amaranthine army's quartermaster, and then he hurried upstairs without acknowledging a single comment about why in the Maker's name he had a dead raven on his arm.

There was wood ready but no fire in the upstairs room someone had claimed for him. They'd placed his shield on the door so he knew where to go and he didn't remove it as he slipped inside. The fire was set with a thought and hand-wave, and Morrigan he eased slowly and carefully from her transformation back into the body she belonged in. He was wise to lay her at the edge of the made bed rather than the middle of it, because she insisted on sitting up before she was completely finished returning to normal.

She sat up as her first act because her second was to find him with her hands and draw his face close to hers and kiss it. She was urgent, looking for his lips and demanding their attention, and if her hands had not been shaking then Soren would have let them do as she pleased and unbuckle his pauldron and pull away the breastplate. But she was shaking, he was close to calling them trembles that robbed her strength and made it hard for her to breathe, but he gave her more credit than that. Morrigan did not tremble, not any more than Soren begged.

"Fort Connor," he finally whispered to her when Morrigan ceased mouthing at him and they embraced tightly. He spoke warmly against her hair, eyes closed and arms locked around her torso. She was holding him as close as his armour would allow and he knew her anger had faltered too heavily to sustain itself. She had fear nipping at her from the memory of her failed spell atop the hill, admitting to him wordlessly how she'd lost the transformation not by choice, but from the weight of everything else. Morrigan longed for her son and he tried to sooth her with what little they finally knew. "It's the only place that makes sense. Zevran has his ring and my Wardens: they're going to find and bring him back." And Soren should have been out there with them as they rode away from the village and out towards the Crossroads, but instead he was here.

Morrigan burst into hard, ugly sobbing and Soren struggled to get out of her embrace and look at her. She was just as shocked as he was and when she looked at him to say something there was only hoarse, sharp crying in the way. He fought down his confusion and then reached for her hands, their fingers grasping and clinging hard at each other in a mess of things they were supposed to be better than.

"I can't!'

"Morrigan-"

"It hurts, Soren, I can't-"

"Shh, my love, calm-"

"No! He needs me and I- and I can't- I can't-"

"Morrigan!" He shouted and he knew what this was. She'd found him trapped in the dark with his tears and indecision in Vigil's Keep, and now he had her bound by terror and mad with fright. "Stand up,"

"I can't-" He shook her. Took her by both shoulders and shook her.

"Stand."

Her hands crawled up his wrists and arms, he hadn't said she had to do it alone and he helped her rise. She was in pain and the exhaustion left haunted circles under her eyes. She was dirty and bloodied and shaking. She held his arms and Soren placed his hands tight around her waist to keep her up as he spoke to her, and spoke harshly.

"You are the Inheritor," he told her stubbornly. "Whatever the hell that means. You are the Daughter of Mythal, whom I stupidly tried to kill to earn your favour because I was twenty years old and you never thought to tell me your mother could turn into a dragon. Stop this."

"I'm still human, you heartless-"

"You are my heart!" he growled at her, shaking her again but with less effect because her hands were on his shoulders, head bowed but not too far. "And I gave you a son born with the soul of an Old God paired with his own. You brought Urthemiel nine ages through time to live again. Not I, not Flemeth, not Mythal, not Andraste herself: you did that. When we lost Urthemiel we gained Kieran, and when I lost Kieran you destroyed a castle that has stood impregnable for a thousand years…" He tugged on her, and Morrigan's forehead settled against his so Soren's arms could twist around her back, helping her stand. "We have come too far to lose now, my heart."

"I cannot use that spell again, Soren…" She admitted to him, and he closed his eyes to listen to her. "Not today, not for a few more, I cannot…"

"Then do not." He told her, because it was a simple enough solution to him. "Why didn't you tell me it hurt you like this?"

"Because they took my son…" He felt her crumple again and looked up to kiss her softly this time, a kindness she needed and accepted and only broke to gasp at him, her fingers stiff on his shoulders. "Everything aches, let me down."

He did, and once she was seated again he heard the movement outside the door from the servants and soldiers. He was given a bucket of steaming water, a wash-cloth and pad of soap, and then a steaming bowl of hot potatoes, gruel, and meat from the army's large pot. There were pleasantries he had no time for and he dismissed the men quickly, bringing the lot back inside.

"Strip those off," he said, taking the room's one chair and setting it close to the fire,

"How romantic," she complained, but complied.

They washed her hair first because she took great pride in the thick raven locks. He helped her part and brush the lengths out while she used the soap and rag where she could reach, and he helped her with tiresome tasks like her cut-up back. The fire kept her warm enough, and he told her to eat despite the bland food leaving much to be desired. The bed was clean and ready for her when she was done with both chores, and with the daylight dying Soren could afford to remove most of his armour and stay with her.

"Your men need you."

"So do you." He took the same chair to the edge of the bed, making sure the blankets were heavy and warm over her, and then reached across her to trace the pad of his thumb over her brow. There was a soft breath of light, and she closed her eyes with a slow breath. "You'll feel better when I'm finished."

"I usually do…" A coy thing to say, but that her humour survived this was important to him.

Soft, gentle spells woven from strands of calming light. Duty nudged against the veil, paying close attention to the lay of lines and thoughts as Soren tended to her aches and sores. There were scars, simple wounds that frustrated him with their persistence, their refusal to heal without his will firmly undoing their damage. He twisted marks of protection and quiet, slipping them through the sheets to cradle the bed and guard her dreams- but heeded Morrigan when she grumbled at him not to do that.

"You want to dream?"

"Mmm…" It was enough of a yes for him to comply. He thought her foolish, but that was nothing new between them. He worked slow, warm magic into her blemished and abused fingers, eased the raw burns down her thighs, and settled the angry storm of minor cuts and pains down her back. She clung to consciousness with stubborn fingers and he didn't understand why, feeding the room's fire with another log and returning to her when Morrigan hummed something to get his attention with. Her voice was thick with sleep, eyes half-lidded.

"Rest while you have time," he scolded gently, letting her fingers hold between his and brushing his touch across her lips and cheek.

"I want…" she grumbled back, and Soren remained there, leaning across her and atop the blankets cradling her. "My bed." Her want made him smile. "My silk sheets… My jewels. My fine foods and wine."

"The harvest was good," he murmured, then kissed the hand he was holding. "Next years' fruit wines will be as sweet as you've always desired."

"Should you leave any for the brewers to use, of course..." Pah, his taste for fruit wasn't that ravenous. "I want… my husband." Oh.

"You've never called me that before," because it was not so. 'Wife' was simply more respectful than most other words the Vigil could think of for her, and Morrigan deserved respect.

"And his heir…" She'd never called Kieran that either, and there was a heavy pain in her voice now that made him lean over and kiss her brow gently. "And Leliana to change her damned laws…"

"I thought none of that meant anything to you?" The Chantry and who it said could marry whom.

"It matters to me that an army searches for the Warden Commander's son… not his bastard."

"That never bothered you in Orlais."

"Because in Orlais a ring and a smile were enough." She argued through her exhaustion. She should sleep. They could discuss these things at home, not here. "They didn't know his father was elven, marriage and legitimacy were assumed."

"My apologies, Lady Morrigan."

"Marry me." Her eyes were bloodshot and struggling so hard to stay awake. Her hands had stopped shaking now that she was fed and tended and warm, and she used them to touch his face again, holding him close. "I grow tired of being stubborn, Soren. My son deserves more than a bastard's disregard. Marry me." It made him feel warm and almost brushed away the fear of what was going on outside this room, the way Soren was aware of Zevran striking out from Redcliffe and up, and over, and away.

"And hope Flemeth will not hear of it?" He asked her softly, lips whispering against her cheek.

"She knows where you are. She's always known that." She was so tired Soren was quite certain Morrigan wouldn't remember any of this tomorrow. He kissed the corner of her mouth and then looked at her again. "And from you are I am rarely gone for long. The Well gave me many things, my love, but freedom from my mother was not one of them."

"Then yes, my heart." He told her in a soft voice. "I will marry you."

"And you'll make Alistair uncomfortable?"

"At the rate we're going, Morrigan, he'll only have to call you Arlessa once before he's finished stripping Amaranthine from me out of spite."

"Once is enough." Her eyes were closed, lips gently smiling. "…kiss me."

He did.

And when he was certain Morrigan was safely sleeping he donned his armour, took up his staff, and left to prepare their army to take advantage of Redcliffe's fallen gate.

:o oh no :o someone is missing :o from this chapter :o wonder why :o it's almost like something :o has happened to the :o main character :o

:o a mystery