By the gods, have I missed being able to sit down and churn out words!

So, there's actually a pretty reasonable explanation for my absense throughout both November and December. I had an examn that was on its third try, meaning if I didn't pass it, I'd be out of University. So, yeah, there was a bit of pressure there... Anyways! That's done with, so I could sit down these last few days and put some action to paper, or digital paper, in this case.

Writing people reacting to something shocking is, heh, shockingly difficult, at least for me. Anyways, I'll just be quiet now, slink into the shadows and allow those of you with the patience to have waited for me to update, enjoy the latest installment.

A Matter of Blood

The chamber had fallen silent, but for the quiet, choked breathing of the elven woman, now kneeling on the ground, her face against the marble tiles. None of them spoke, barely daring to utter the merest whisper in the face of such a revelation.

Talia stared, shocked beyond comprehension. Horror seeped through her bones, freezing the blood in her veins with every shallow breath her lungs forced down. The world felt muffled, as if wool had been pulled over her ears and eyes, an itching sensation that, as she blinked it away, betrayed itself as tears. Alistair? She can't mean- It's a coincidence, Alistair's a common name in Ferelden, Mara's tits! But then, why the guards? Alistair never knew his mother, wasn't she some serf Maric fucked in Redcliffe? What the fuck, Maric, who is this, what's going on?!

Of all the world's horrors, the one she'd never though to face was to stand before Alistair's mother, and be alive where he was dead and burnt. And yet, here it was. Here his mother was, wheezing on the floor of the shrine of Victory Hill as her words instilled disbelief.

How? How was this a thing? How was the world weaved by hands this cruel, to bring them together? What god or Daedra narrated such an act of sadistic malice? The grief had only just started settling in the back of her heart, and now it was torn fresh once more, a wound reopened in the pits of her soul. Every memory she had of her friend, comrade and borderline brother, of their leader and commander, now stood before her like ghosts, no less real than Onmund had presented himself before her in Haven.

And yet, for all of their anguish, for all the pain it wrought upon her to see him again, to remember his smiles before the Blight had turned them dark and thin... he'd never once so much as hinted at such a heritage. To be the son of an elf, an Orlesian one to boot... had he been anyone else, of course he'd never have told them, but he wasn't anyone else. He'd been Alistair, their Alistair, back then.

He would have told them, had he known himself. She felt sure of that, even if the belief did little to soothe the pain raking cold claws down the back of her skull. All too easily, she could see her own mother there on the floor, weeping over a different name engraved in the plaque. All too easily it could have been.

She'd never wanted to be here, to be confronted with something like this. Eamon had seemed the closest thing to a parent Alistair'd had, after Duncan, and both were long gone. So why...

Why this? Why was she faced with this, a situation she couldn't even begin to grasp, as her own breath failed her, her own heart racing ahead without a care in the world. It would escape her chest, if it had to. Her mind lightened, all sense of balance lost as the claws of grief and disbelief bored deeper, savaging her conscious, that she had failed Alistair, when it had mattered the most. She'd fucked up, they all had, and now-

"Calm."

Brelyna's voice washed over her, a warm sensation as if she'd been dropped in the baths of Evermor Estate. With a breath of air, all terror fled her mind, and the haze of grief lifted like had it been nothing but a fucked up illusion all along. She saw the green glow, too, the telltale signs that betrayed the spell. Even then she said nothing, and watched instead as her step-sister applied the same care to Aedan, and then to the woman still kneeling on the floor.

"Be calm, Serah." The spell laced with the Dunmer's voice as she spoke, as she kindly touched a hand on the grieving mother's shoulder. Like with Talia's own, her breath became calm and her shakings ended; "Breathe, be at peace."

Watching illusion magics at work was always a disorienting experience, to understand how it had affected your own mind. Where she had just now been at her wits end with grief, slowly and gingerly the elven woman came to her feet.

She seemed, for a time, confused.

"Forgive the intrusion, Serah" Brelyna bowed her head; "Are you feeling better?"

Weary eyes of gray steel found the Dunmeri girl, yet seemed not at all surprised. Even now, when the grief ought have no longer clouded her mind, there was neither shock nor disbelief to be found. Only exhaustion.

"You are...Brelyna Maryon." It was not a question, and Brelyna didn't have the time to reply; "She said you would come, that it would be four of you..."

"J'zargo's asleep in the carriage." Talia sighed. As if she'd expected nothing less, the elven woman merely nodded; "Who told...wait, no, I think I already know..." yet again, Alma was running around doing her own thing, and no one seemed to be in on the why's of it. It had stopped being funny some time ago; "Are you really... I mean, I don't...how?"

Before grief returned, she needed to know. It felt wrong to be so in the dark about Alistair's origins. He deserved better.

"Elf-blooded children do not inherit the traits of their mothers." Aedan said, turning his eyes to the still silent woman; "Is that not true?"

"It...is." So, Daveth had been right then, about his own parentage. Well, of course he had. This wasn't exactly a novel idea for anyone; "I am...sorry, grief still overtakes me when...Most of the time, I fear. My waking hours have been little but anguish and...rage, for weeks now. I am Fiona, and...for a time I was Alistair's mother."

"You are still." Brelyna said, her voice and words kind.

"No." Fiona said, eyes averted from the younger elf's; "A mother who... I gave Alistair up. I...lost the right to call myself his mother, the very day I gave him away to a life of loneliness and hardships...and death."

"You are." Aedan now spoke, his hand seeking his belt. Talia watched him, unsure of what he was doing, before his fingers flipped open one of the small, leathery pouches tied thereon, and withdrew a necklace she'd thought lost.

It was Alistair's, the one Eamon had apparently repaired when their leader as a boy had smashed it in a fit of rage; "This is yours, I think?"

Fiona had frozen where she stood, eyes unmoving, unblinking at the sight.

When had he even gotten his hands on it? Alistair had worn it till the day he...till the pyre. Did Aedan really have that kind of foresight, to take it off him before we set it alight?

"Where...how..." emotions choked Fiona's voice once more, this time with something other than pure grief mixed in. It wasn't joy, at all. There was no glee or rejoice to find in those red-ringed eyes; "...how do you have that?"

"Alistair wore it to the end." He said; "Before we...put him to rest, I removed it from him. I thought...it was his mother's, he told us. So..." gingerly, he held it forward, the Andrastian flame seemingly giving off the softest of glows on its own. Even with all the abuse it had suffered, the cracks held together; "We knew he might have some family still, just not..."

"You...he..." the words came uneven to the elven woman, even as she seemed surmounting the task of reaching out for the repaired Andrastian flame. No one else spoke, barely even breathed, at the sight. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Fiona's thumb caressed the gleaming, cracked metal; "...I...placed this around his neck, before even a strand of hair could be seen on his...little head."

The tears flowed freely again, openly and yet Fiona seemed entirely unaware of it. Talia was trying to keep her own in, aware entirely that she was failing in the task. Slowly, the older woman plucked the necklace from Aedan's open hand, holding the little piece of metal as were it some remnant of Alistair himself.

In a way, it was.

"Thank you." Two words, and they sounded as if the throat they'd escaped had sealed up entirely. Brelyna stepped forward, hand aglow with emerald, only for Fiona to shake her head and wipe away at her face with a sleeve already long since stained by grief; "Even though I... have no right to... to know he bore this, all this time..."

"The world is cruel, and will claim the lives of even those we seek to protect. You did what...you thought best for Alistair." Brelyna muttered, her own voice cracking slightly; "His death was none of your doing, nor a result of your inaction. Alistair was... none of us would still be here, if not for him."

"He kept us sane, strange as it'd seem to say that back then." Talia said, a weak, mirthless chuckle escaping her. Damp tears cooled her cheeks as she spoke, her own throat protesting every word; "Until the end, he...was bright, like a fire that wouldn't burn you if you touched it. I don't think he'd have wanted anyone to cry over him, he'd have snorted and scoffed at the idea. Then, he'd have made...one of those shitty puns..." it was hard to speak, and she could scarcer still breathe properly. But she would say this, or regret it; "He'd usually make...really, really bad puns. Witty one-liners, he called it, like...it was some sort of skill, the moron..."

"It was, though..." Aedan said.

"It was." she nodded, finding a smile, however weak and thin it was; "Blights are fucking depressing, re-really. Horrible shit, all around. Everything's dying and- and growing spikes and fuck knows what- but Alistair just...got us through it, somehow. I still don't have a goddamn clue how he didn't go insane from that kind of pressure... and then he'd fondle that piece of metal like it was a holy relic or something and...and then he'd smile and make puns, or push on like nothing..."

She hated this shit, she really did. It hurt and made her feel sick, and she couldn't do away with it with potions or healing or anything.

The life of a Grey Warden was one of sacrifice, they all said. But no one ever turned the fucking coin and asked what it was like for those left behind. The sacrifice went out in a blaze of glory, and the rest of them were left with the grief.

"You were with him." She forced it out through a constricting throat; "All the time. Don't you fucking dare say you failed him." Fiona merely blinked at her, visibly taken aback by the fury in her words. Fucking hells, she was bad at this, but more importantly, she was angry because who the fuck did Fiona think she was to say she'd failed Alistair? She wasn't the one who'd had her hands burried in his guts trying and failing to stop the blood from leaving his body; "Because you didn't. You did...your damn best, you did, I think. And he knew it. Even though the world was shit to him, he knew you did your best... and he'd probably be pissed at us if we just let you keep crying over him."

That, or he'd probably have made fun of them for causing a scene.

At Gherlen's Pass, the air resounded with the cracks of wood on wood, and the grunts of men and bellows of their instructors.

"THAT POST JUST FUCKED YOUR MOTHER, RECRUIT!" Phillipe could have done without the latter. If the Centurions of the Legion fought as well as they roared, it was no wonder at all how Orlais had lost out despite numbers being to their favor. Fingers clenched around his wooden sword, he struck hard as he could against the small post, little more than a man-sized beam of timber, complete with a cross-going beam for arms, and a cap at the top as if it were a head; "YOUR MOTHER, RECRUIT!"

Luckily, it seemed more of a general expression than directed personally at him. The Centurions went their rounds, screaming and bellowing at anyone who didn't quite seem up to par. Maybe that was why he hadn't been grabbed and shaken yet, a gesture he'd seen enough times by now to recognize its place. As a Chevalier, and generally a stronger man than most of his peers, the Centurions pointed at him more than they shouted, beating down others for not being as good with a stick as a damn Brewster.

It was strange, just how terrifying those Centurions could be. They were mere men, and not even very high on the hierarchy of the army as it was. And yet, he'd barely himself dared to hold the eyes of one for more than mere seconds. It seemed as if a darkness rested within, some otherworldly force capable of reducing men to the meekest of children. They carried their own sticks too, staves more like, of solid wood and with clear purpose. He'd seen it used less than he'd expected, given the verbal abuse they threw at the other recruits, but it had seen use all the same. Radzig was growing a beautiful, blue bruise on his left arm when he'd been caught slacking on his shield, and though it seemed they were picking Samwell for some sort of special task, he too was getting beaten down by the Centurions.

Sweat poured from his brow in the warm rays of the sun, as it did so many others he knew. The drill square, such as it was, was situated outside the walls of the fortified camp proper, drawing the usual crowds of onlookers. His eyes briefly raked their faces, seeking out the slant-eared woman he'd become so very familiar with. It was stranger still, how perilous this mission was and yet...

"THIRD COHORT! ATTENTION!"

The roar could have rivaled the hunchbacked lizards of the Western Approach in its volume, and those to whom it was directed, amongst these being himself, snapped about with at this point practiced fluidity. Nothing more was said, nor was it needed.

He'd only seen their Captain vaguely before, in the distance and in short glimpses only. Here, however, the man walked between them accompanied by one of the Centurions responsible for generous application of physical incentives to excellence in training. The uniform was not a Fereldan one, he noticed with a start, nor was it Imperial. It was a mesh of mail and lamellar, more often found amongst either Anders or Tevinter horsemen. He wore a cape too, though it was torn in many places. A violent green demanded attention upon it.

Captain Irondahl, their commanding officer. He resembled a Fereldan enough that he could have passed for one, if not for the choice of armor, it was true. Or, maybe it was just personal tastes. Could officers pick their own equipment? He walked with a slight limp, and as he drew closer and closer, Philippe found himself amazed at the multitudes of scars and bruises permanently decorated upon his face. An elderly man that he seemed to be, it was clear their Captain was a veteran, though of what wars was yet unclear. The Rebellion, probably. One eye was even hidden away beneath a patch of black leather - or rather perhaps it was the lack of said eye it concealed - bringing only further speculations from the others in their quarters.

With a start, he saw the Centurion gesturing in his direction. His breath stopped. Was his cover blown? There had been no alarms, no shouts, and he'd not been dragged by his arms out of the barracks, clasped in irons. If they had... what would Illia do, then? It was already widely enough known that he often came to see her, and the others knew he was "married". Could she flee, or...

"Recruit Turner!" his heart skipped a beat, now caught in the eyes of both his superiors and fellow recruits. If he had to, he could kill...maybe two of them, but the rest would overwhelm him, beat him to a pulp. He had no weapons but his weighted, wooden stick. The Centurions carried steel.

"Yes, Centurion!"

He resigned himself to Fate, whatever it may bring. If this was nothing...if it was nothing, then he would be best served acting the role. He did not let down his attentive stance, even when the Centurion and their Captain walked over, the former far more terrifying a creature than the latter.

"Recruit Philippe Turner of Portsmouth." The Centurion had not glanced away. So, he knew him by name then. Terrifying, somehow. It was not addressed to him, but instead to the Captain; "One of the few who's not entirely goddamn useless..."

Philippe blinked, unsure of what he had heard. Captain Irondahl walked up closer, a slight but noticeable drag on his left leg. With one eye, it felt as if he drove a pike through his soul, laying it all bare. Disregard the terror of the Centurions, what manner of man is this one?

"Nie bezużyteczne, not useless you say?" He had, at least, been right there. An Anders, the Captain was; "Are you of use, then, Philippe of Portsmouth? Do you know why I stand here before you?"

"I...don't, Captain." He disliked the uncertainty in his own voice, faced with a mere soldier. As a Chevalier such was supposedly beneath him, and yet... "Have I neglected my duties?"

"Hmm, not quite... Titorous, you say he has neglected his duties?" the Captain asked of the accompanying Centurion. The Imperial was shorter than Irondahl, but looked like he was forged from cast-iron, weathered and hard. It seemed as if he'd been made without the capacity for smiles.

"You're out of luck for your Cohort, Irondahl..." The Centurion snorted; "Barely ten in total I'd count for it, of them all. Turner here, he's the only one that's not puked his guts out in the forced march too..."

"Curious, yes? Such endurance from a simple pole turner?" Irondahl hummed, his accent thick and bordering on the exotic. Philippe felt a bead of sweat on his brow, borne not so much from exhaustion; "Curious, yes I think so."

"Th- thank you, Captain!" The best he could do, in truth, was to pretend such observations were taken as compliments. If he could play it off, make it seem he'd not expected it himself either, maybe they too would think less of it. Of him; "Your words honor me!"

"They do, yes?" his superior mused, humor clear in his eye; "Titorous, mark this one down and send him to me along with the others when you're done."

The throne and assembly room of the Royal Palace was all but empty, save the presence of a select few. Belisarius, clad in full colors of plate and cape, rested on his feet where he stood at the foot of the throne-stairs. He knew perfectly well that Talia Aulus and her comrades had arrived in Denerim, and where they were, to some extent. Pullo was nothing if not quick-witted and keen on the ears, and likewise to his men.

"Lady Aulus and Lord Cousland have arrived." He said at last, breaking the silence. King Fergus nodded, saying nothing more as he reclined on his throne, Anora next to him on her own. Belisarius sometimes wondered how things had worked during the reign of King Cailan, if the second throne was such a recent addition to the hall. Had only one monarch presided at a time, or had one stood while the other sat? "As fate or fortune would have it, they seem to have encountered Serah Fiona at Victory Hill."

"I must admit that I still don't fully understand her ties to that place." Fergus muttered; "Or to the dead. Did she have any children?"

"You said Alma indicated something to that extend?" Anora asked; "She said nothing more, nothing that could shed light on the situation?"

"Very little, I fear." Belisarius admitted; "I would not understand, evidently."

"And then she freely walked out the door again." The King said; "She was here. She was here, and we missed her."

"I doubt we could have held her, had we known." The Queen argued softly, a hand atop her husband's. Still the connections between the King and Alma seemed...vague, to the General. It didn't make sense to imagine that old rogue as something akin to a nanny for noble children. Why even take up such an occupation? "What would you have done, had she remained for us to see her?"

Belisarius' brow rose in anticipation, wondering if the King would utter some new exclamation, another bout of resentment for the old crone. None came, though, for the young ruler seemed to bite his tongue rather than speak. Personally, he was just trying to keep himself out of thát hornets nest, and let the matter be between royals and...and whatever Alma truly was.

She'd made the claim that she was no Dragon priest, and that the same was true for the Aulus girl, that they served...some sort of different role. Could it actually be true, what she had told him of their relationship with the dragon? It went against much of what he knew of dragons, which admittedly was limited to rumors and old tales. The crisis they had wrought in Skyrim was a brief one, a credit to either Tulius or something else. The Greybeards? Either way, it was none of his trouble, thankfully. Still, he was left with trouble of his very own now.

If Lady Aulus had met with Fiona, it was not impossible that they somehow made the connection of the former's reason to be in Denerim. And then he risked being cut out, a probability he didn't much care for. The girl was a potential asset, even if she'd rather not be. All servants of the Empire had a duty to it and its citizens, nobles more so than most. And she was gifted, with a power greater than out be beyond the Legion's reach.

That she was, apparently, thoroughly loyal to the Empire to this day...He wasn't sure which Divine to thank, but gratitude was owed to one of them, that he knew.

"Nothing." The King finally said, his word more of a sigh than an answer; "I suspect it will remain as such, too, though I don't like it. I just... if it really is her, who I think it is... I do not know, but to have seen her with my own eyes would have settled my doubts...and likely raised only fresh ones in their place..."

"Be that as it may, Aedan and Talia, if they have encountered Fiona, will likely return here with her." Anora said, her voice a soothing one against her husband's. Her eyes lost some of that gentle caring as they turned to Belisarius, though they were yet friendly. He knew she did not much care for his dealings with the Orlesian mage as a bargaining chip. He did not fault her for that; "What will you do, General, if they have already realized their connection? You might lose your chance at influencing Talia before she even gets here."

"Talia Aulus is a prominent member of Imperial Nobility, whether she realizes this remains the case or not." There was no reason to argue the Queen's point, though he would have liked her to be less blunt about it. His desires to influence lady Aulus' actions were in the Empire's best interests, and as well in Ferelden's. But, all the same, he was trying to influence her. Anora was a sharp one; "If they realize the connection, I will yet have made it possible, potentially, to free her of the Darkspawn taint. In the end, if the Empire and Ferelden benefits from my actions, I will still consider it a gain."

"I see." She said, though he knew there was a great deal more she wished to say; "For my part, I shall be glad to see them again, Aedan and Talia both, though I would as well much have liked to see Eleanor again. It is still a strange notion to me that I can call her 'mother'."

"I've met Teyrna Eleanor only briefly..." Belisarius started, though before he could speak more, the cast-iron hammers struck the throne room doors, signaling entry. He held his tongue then, and turned to regard the newcomers as the massive oaken doors were pushed open.

It was not the young Aulus who entered, but rather one of the Queen's personal guard, a female knight of the surname 'Mhairi'. He still could not pronounce it, and refrained best he could usually from encountering her, lest people found out.

"Majesties. General." She strode in, steel plate rattling with every step; "The Wardens have arrived, and have met up with the lady Fiona at Victory Hill. They await entry, by your leave."

"Damn that boy..." the King sighed; "You'd think being my brother he'd just enter. I suppose that's Talia's influence on him, madness though it sounds... Send them in, Ser Mhairi."

The knight ducked back out again, closing the door behind her as she went. Barely had the ornate doors shut themselves before they were pushed open again. This time, it was no knight in plate who entered, but instead an unusually quiet group of Wardens, as well their elven entourage. And a Khajiit. It was a moment before Belisarius remembered the Khajiit's role in the Blight. Strangely, the lady Maryon had made more of an impact - and earned more of a reputation - than the only cat capable of speech in Thedas.

Thedas, he'd long-since decided, was an odd place.

He'd not seen much of the Orlesian mage since agreeing to her partial release, but when she entered as well he was certain something was...different, about her. She walked differently, somehow, and held herself differently. There was no pride nor confidence that had not been there before, that being little to none at all, but still, something had changed. Even he could tell that much.

"At this point you'd think I'd gotten better at greeting you as King..." Fergus was the first to speak, when it seemed none of the arrivals knew how. There was a mild smile on his lips; "Never loses its novelty, you know? Are you subjects or family? Are you supposed to bow or not?"

"You will learn with time, I'm sure of it." Anora said, turning a smile as well on their guests; "I at least can speak with some degree of experience, on the matter. No, you are not required to bow, any of you. As family, by blood or no, you are not held to such demands of court." The Queen strode forward, until she held the lady Aulus in a surprisingly familiar embrace; "It is good to see you all again."

Watching the brothers and pregnant women embracing, Belisarius found himself somewhat out of place.

"Hi Anora..." Talia smiled, realizing with a start, and some surprise, that she'd actually missed the Queen. They were now, after all, in-laws, much as the notion was a strange one to her. To be the sister-in-law to Ferelden's Queen, and King, was a thing she'd never expected or even dared to contemplate back when they'd been knee-deep in Darkspawn; "It's good to see you too."

"We heard the news." Aedan said, waiting for Fergus to release him from a, though brotherly, less tight embrace; "You've been busy, brother."

"All for Ferelden, brother." Fergus replied, though the snort of amusement from Anora broke his façade; "You know I've always been terribly patriotic."

"Tomfoolery runs in the family, I see?" the Queen sighed; "Yes, Fergus has done his duty most commendably, I assure you... Cousland men, you know? Too much life in them, too much...enthusiasm." She seemed to notice Brelyna trying to determine what expression best fit such discussions; "Best be careful, Lady Maryon, that no noble nor knight takes quite such advantage of you as well. Behold we foolish women, ensnared by men."

Was this where someone should mention Ser Gilmore? Honestly she wasn't sure just where her friend stood with the knight. Brelyna was not the type for the kind of superficial, carnal relations she'd herself entertained throughout her adolescence, and nor did Gilmore seem the type of man to initiate such. Their whole relationship was a continuous mystery to her. Now how it held together, but how it had ever begun in the first place.

Of the two of them, her and Brelyna, the Dunmeri girl was by far the most responsible, the most mature. Once, it might have been a source of amusement, even still was often times. But these days, however, it meant Brelyna was the one to remind her of her blood intake. The accursed little vials stuffed and stacked in the girl's satchel, slushing with red.

She didn't like them, the vials, or what they did to her. What their presence and her need for them did to her. She knew, of course, that it was entirely her own goddamn fault that she needed them in the first place, and through that also Hakkon's fault. Though, if she was going down that route, then the entirety of the blame could be shifted onto that fuckwitted blobtit of a priest from Haven, who'd forced her through the Gauntlet in the first place. Might've saved Ferelden doing it, all things considered, but fuck him anyway, bastard.

It was for no noble of Bankorai to drink the blood of their fellow humans. It was what the Grey Host did, what Vampires and the inhuman filth did. Yet it was for her, and for all she knew the consequences of putting it off, to drink the blood of humans repulsed her as much as it delighted her, and therein lay the cause for her disgust. She liked it, the taste. She knew it was Hakkon's influence, on some level, but she was not so blind as to think it was wholly him, that...she herself took no part in it. Their bond had not left her unscathed. None of that now, later. Later.

She found her smile again, hoping none had noticed her tip-toing into the tub of depression.

"This is...all well and good, but if I might interject before everyone becomes too jovial?" Honestly, Talia had forgotten General Belisarius was even in the room. Tactless, she knew, and best he was not made aware of her misstep. The General, for his part, seemed decidedly uncomfortable about the displays of familiarity before him. She felt a degree of relief, to see him in such a better condition than last. He could walk on his own, and the cane was gone too.

There was Fiona too, of course. The moment her eyes landed on the elven woman, her mood sank as well as her heart. Alistair's mother, and an apparent guest at the Palace from what it seemed with Mhairi escorting her. Even now, with the shock somewhat dissipated, she still didn't understand what was going on. Why was Alistair's mother, an Orlesian elf, a guest of the Palace? How had they found out about her, and not mentioned it in any letter? It...seemed like the kind of thing you would mention, especially if Fiona had been their guest for long enough that a letter or a messenger could have reached them.

"General Belisarius." She gave him a deferential nod, aware that no more nor less was asked or expected. Brelyna did the same, though the Fereldans and Khajiit of the group merely nodded in greetings. Fiona, surprisingly, slowly made her way to where he stood, and then remained silent; "It is good to see your condition has improved."

"It has" His greeting was more respectful than the one she'd given him; "To which I owe much thanks to First Enchanter Wynne. She was also the one to make possible this meeting." He gestured at Fiona, who yet stood unmoving at his side, as if expecting orders.

It was still a surreal thing, to have her here. to have Alistair's mom here, and not...not know how to deal with it. Like, at all. She didn't even know what they were to each other. Alistair had been their brother, but...Fiona wasn't exactly like a mother to any of them.

"Yes, we...met, down at Victory Hill." Aedan said; "We shared a common loss, as it turns out. How did Wynne get involved in all this?"

"First Enchanter Wynne recognized me..." Fiona spoke, her voice a rasp borne of far too recent grief; "We met before, once... when I was still...before the Blight."

"Perhaps..." Belisarius started, his eye moving to Fergus and Anora; "This is a conversation better suited for the privacy of my study, rather than the open space of the throne room?"

"You mean not to keep us in the dark, surely?" Anora asked, one brow raised; "This is our Palace, General."

"Not you, no, but..." for some reason, the man seemed slightly amused at the question, or perhaps at his answer; "It is all too easy for unwelcome ears to listen in here..."

There was little argument to the man's words, nor against them. Aedan was the first to follow, surprising maybe even himself at his willingness. Talia smiled at the sight, all things considered. Today had been a messed up experience, and she was more than keen on anything to brighten it a bit. Aedan trusting a bit more into the Imperial General was, while not exactly funny, still enough to lift her spirits a bit. The rest of them followed, mud-caked boots leaving faint tracks on the sandstone tiles of the Palace floor.

And much to the probable horror of the servants, also on the carpets.

She hadn't been to General Belisarius' study before - though honestly when would she have? Last she'd been here, he'd not exactly been in any condition for social visits. Would she even have made one of those? Sure, he was an Imperial officer, and a damn high ranking one at that... actually, maybe it'd have been a good idea, in hindsight.

Surprisingly, there wasn't much Imperial influence over the study, though it was clearly lived in, since the explosion that nearly killed him did rip his quarters apart in the Legion's encampment. The only overt signs of Tamrielic presence was a stack of books with titles written in block-printed Imperial. She doubted any Fereldans could read those.

"I've not enough seats for all, I fear." Belisarius muttered, gesturing at the few chairs there were. J'zargo, with the uncanny grace of his kind, slipped quickly and quietly between them, securing himself the only one with cushioned armrests.

It earned him a one-eyed glare.

"That one is mine, Khajiit." The General's voice was not raised one bit, yet still cowered the cat out of the chair like he'd been doused with ice-water. It was, though she wouldn't admit it aloud, a pretty funny thing to behold.

Aedan, ever the uncompromising gentleman, secured her a seat. Curiously, the same scene played out with Fergus and Anora. The Queen seemed less amused, though still appreciative. There wasn't yet much of a hint as to her condition, but... Fergus had already lost one family, she knew. He'd not likely risk it again, even if his precautions bordered on the silly. Fiona didn't even attempt to take a seat, instead leaning against the wall behind Belisarius. Wasn't she Fergus and Anora's guest, or was she actually his?

Things, annoyingly, remained a mess to her.

"Introductions, then." The General said, sinking into his cushioned chair. He fished a pipe from one of the drawers of his desk, stuffing it with something that smelled awfully like Elfroot. Seeing an Imperial General reclining, like a normal person, stuffing his pipe, was almost surreal. Funny too, considering everything she'd seen by now. Even the iron-faced men of the Legion's top were people, in the end; "To those of you who do not know, Wardens, Enchanter Fiona of Montsimmard, previously of his Excellency, Emperor Gaspard de Chalons' personal strike force aimed at Denerim."

That...didn't actually make things any less confusing. Talia would have been impressed that the man could give them information and only leave them, or at least her, more in the dark than before. Why was Alistair's mother with Gaspard on his conquest of Ferelden? Why was she here then, and not a prisoner?

"I thought she was a guest of the Palace?" Talia bit her tongue soon as the words had left her. Belisarius had been just about to continue, and seemed annoyed with the interruption. Gods, what a great day; "Pardon, General..."

"She is." Anora said; "Though it has been a recent change of affairs, I admit... and a still confusing one."

"Lady Fiona was granted her freedom from captivity quite recently, yes." Belisarius explained, nodding to the elven woman. With a bit of flint and steel; "Partly, due to the insistence of a rogue mage I believe us all, at this point, quite acquainted with..."

"Alma..." Aedan sounded less than pleased; "But why?"

"We knew one another." Fiona spoke, her voice oddly devoid of emotions. There was neither trace of fondness nor spite; "A lifetime ago. For all the horror she's wrought... she still remembered."

"This one does not mean to pry, but this Alma woman? She's a terrifying force, yes?" J'zargo hummed, cat-eyes narrowed in thought; "How does an elven mage come to know her?"

"How do mages and noble sons come to know one another?" Fiona asked instead, weary eyes landing on Talia. It felt as if they pierced her skin; "Grey Wardens come from all walks of life. It was her that brought me into the Order, two score years ago..."

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"Grey Wardens cannot normally have children, can they?" Brelyna was the first to speak, though the question wasn't how Talia would have wanted the silence broken. She was still as confused as ever, more so actually because yeah, wasn't that supposed to be a thing about Wardens and fertility? Longer they were Wardens, less chance of kids, that kind of thing? Morrigan's ritual was the only reason she was pregnant, wasn't it? Or Morrigan just said what she needed to say to get in Aedan's pants...

"It is rare." She muttered, scratching her neck in thought; "I think it gets harder and harder the longer you go."

"It does." Fiona nodded; "I was... a while down the path by the time I... with Maric."

"With M-Maric?" Anora stuttered, her confusion evident.

"She's no Warden." Aedan stated; "There's not a shred of the Taint about her, even less than Talia."

"Fiona was a Grey Warden." Belisarius said, and the matter-of-fact tone with which he spoke for a moment hid the implications of his words. Then, like a hammerblow to the knee, it struck her. and the General noticed, definitely, nodding to her realization; "Yes. Was. She is the reason I brought you here, Lady Aulus, Lord Cousland."

"Alistair's mom was a..." Talia stopped herself, rubbing at thundering temples; "Okay. Okay, I'm...Let me just see if I get all this right, okay? Alistair's mom is an Orlesian elven Grey Warden, who somehow got pregnant without the help of a mage..."

"Alistair's mother!?" Anora sputtered, eyes wide.

"I am a mage, though." Fiona muttered.

"...right, of course she's a mage." Talia nodded; "...got pregnant as a Grey Warden elven, Orlesian mage with the King of fucking Ferelden, at some point, completely disregarding the relationship of the nations at the time, probably, and also that I'm pretty sure Maric was married at the time? And for some reason Alma is always involved and I'm really getting fucking tired of it... That about it?"

"Maric was unmarried at the time..."

"And Alma?" Aedan asked of the elven woman, catching her eyes; "She was a Grey Warden too?"

"Yes..." Fiona nodded; "Though you likely are aware of how it came to be that she no longer is one."

"Dragon-blood and Tamrielan magic, more or less..." Talia grumbled, beyond done with all of this. She'd hoped General Belisarius was going to offer her something like a potion, or just a text or something other than all this emotional bullshit. She wasn't capable of dealing with this, not by a long shot; "Honestly, that hag's got to have the most impressive job record I've ever heard of. Grey Warden, War hero, Chantry Sister, a goddamn Nanny..."

"Potioneer." Aedan added; "In Oxford."

"Yes, that too..." she rubbed her temples again, trying to keep down the pounding of her blood from spurting out her ears. Felt an awful lot like it would happen, too; "So... Fiona was a Grey Warden, but isn't one anymore. That's the gist of it, yes?"

"It is." General Belisarius nodded, looking almost entertained at the mental gymnastics she was jumping through to get things to fit; "Considering the supposed impossibility of it, you appear to be taking this... rather well."

"I knew it could be done." Talia said matter-of-fact, giving the General a weak shrug; "I'm to the point where the Warden title is basically just a title anyways. There's barely any taint left in my blood, if any at all. It's...kinda concentrated, in a cyst like...a small, lump somewhere inside me. Dragon blood does it, somehow..."

"Indeed, I am informed of your relationship with the Draconic entity known as 'Hakkon', Lady Aulus." Oh. Yeah, well, that... she hadn't seen thát one coming. At all. Actually it was a pretty fucking terrifying prospect if the General knew she was in cahoots with a dragon.

That kind of shit was usually enough to have you drawn and quartered as a dragon priest.

"You...are?" Aedan asked, perhaps sensing her distress. One hand neared the pommel of his blade; "To what extent?"

"Alma told me enough..." Belisarius said, his tone unchanging as he fiddled with the end of his pipe; "...to understand, if I take her word on it, that your ties with this creature are dissimilar to those of a dragon priest."

"Oh... "Damn it she hated it when people did that kind of shit, those suspenseful moments that didn't lead up to anything and just gave her a heart attack for no goddam reason at all. Aedan too, visibly relaxed at those words; "Well, that's...great, yeah...So, it's like this thing where it's not really conscious but...more like a...thing that...happens... I'm sorry, but... it's weird to talk about."

"Understandable." The General nodded; "It bears little resemblance to Fiona's situation, however. Dragon blood was no factor, as I understand it?"

"No dragons were involved..." Fiona shook her head, her speech slowing; "Just Maric and..."

"And?" Aedan was the first to lose his patience, growing visibly thinner. Talia felt her own straining, so close and yet no closer for it to figuring out a cure. If there was one. There was one, had to be. Unless Fiona and the General both were full of shit; "Maric and...?"

"Alma cured herself once, drinking dragons' blood, she...said it did something to her, pushed out the taint." Fiona said, arms hugged around herself; "Didn't know where to get by dragons blood though, nor would I have dared it had I known. Dragons are old magic, as you know. Deep magic. I would rather take the demon I knew than the one I did not..."

"Dragon blood is said to risk horrific mutations, or outright death, to the drinker in rituals, or nothing at all if merely drunk..." Fergus explained, and Talia felt a stone drop in her guts. They'd sent her to drink dragon blood in Haven, knowing it could leave her some kind of monster, permanently? They're lucky they're dead... "Alma though, is a Breton. Her magic's not like what we know."

"I know." The elf said; "She told me before I was set free. So many years at her side, yet I knew her not at all. She went with us, into the Deep Roads. There, I was wounded by the Darkspawn, they poison their blades and arrows. I was delirious, bound to my sleeping roll. Then she...Alma, she gave me something to drink, medicine, she said. I did not question it, not then, when I could barely tell her and Maric from one another."

"What was in the medicine, if you do not mind my asking?" Brelyna posed, red eyes watching the former Warden with intent.

"Blood lotus, or so she at least claimed." Fiona muttered; "The taste seemed right for it, I did not ponder it further 'fore..."

"It worked?" Talia asked, feeling like she could have put it better. Of course it'd worked, or Fiona wouldn't be here; "What was it then?"

"Blood." The elf said, somehow dragging the word through its single syllable; "Her blood. Hours passed, and I could move about again. My...senses, for Darkspawn, they had dulled, like an old woman's might. I thought it just...an effect of the fever." Fiona sighed; "Then, later I found companionship of...another sort, with Maric and... day by day, my senses dulled, the nightmares became a memory but...and so did the Order, once my condition became known."

"Always comes back to blood magic, don't it?" Fergus grumbled.

"Your condition?" Anora asked; "You mean that you no longer bore the taint."

"And that I bore a child in its stead." Fiona nodded slowly. The Queen's eyes narrowed at that, for some reason; "It is not impossible for Wardens to have children, provided it is early into their...path, but I had been a Warden for well over a decade. My pregnancy only further cemented to Weisshaubt that I no longer counted among their numbers."

"Alistair was elf-blooded, Talia is elf-blooded, Daveth is elf-blooded..." the Queen muttered, a frown setting in as she turned an eye to the King. Fergus snorted at the gesture, catching its intent.

"I'll have you know my lineage is well accounted for, dear wife." He snarked, shaking his head before turning back to the matter at hand; "Lineages aside, this is primarily a matter that concerns the Grey Wardens. Aedan, Talia, what do you think of all this?"

"Seems too easy to be true." Talia muttered; "If Alma's blood was the reason Fio..." she paused and turned to Fiona, because otherwise would be rude; "You were cured of the taint, it'd be because of the dragon's blood, Sossedov, in her veins. Same shit's in my veins, but...I don't suppose you've a notion of how much she gave you?"

"I have none, I fear." Fiona said; "I was not at my most coherent."

"Wait." J'zargo spoke up, his voice a hum of curiosity; "There is a matter this one does not quite understand. If dragon's blood is the cure, maybe? Then how was Alma still a Grey Warden? Would not the blood, in its undiluted state, have cured her as well?"

The Breton in question opened her mouth to speak, only to close it again. Actually, that...fuck, that was a pretty good point, really. Hakkon's blood had cured her, more or less, and would have done the same with Alma, because apparently the old hag had also been a Grey Warden at one point and oh fuck there were starting to be way too many things she'd in common with the nutty old bitch. She didn't like that, at all. Was this how Morrigan felt about her mom, that crazy old lady in the swamps? If I'm related to that old bat, I'll...I don't know, walk off a pier? Is insanity hereditary?

She knew Mundus was equal parts evil and batshit insane, but still...Nirn was a big place.

The risks of her being related to the only other Breton in Thedas were...well, they were pretty goddamn small. Especially since she'd never even heard of her before. And the family archives had no mention of any relatives disappearing, unless her her schooling in the lineages of High Rock's Houses was inadequate. Altrnatively, of course, the old crone was full of shit. She hadn't given that option near as much thought as it probably, really, definitely warranted.

"Good point." Aedan said, maybe realizing her mind had gone and fucked off eleven leagues elsewhere. Talia could feel a headache coming on. Usually did when she had to give much thought to the piss-annoying enigma calling itself Alma. Which, still, she was definitely calling out to be a fake-ass name. It wasn't a Breton name, for starters. And she'd already caught the old bat calling herself Leliana, of all things; "Fiona?"

"I do not know." The elf replied; "The taint was always weak in her, like it is in you, Talia. If what you say is true, about the concentration of the taint into a...what did you call it?"

"A cyst." Talia sighed; "It's...not really something you want in a healthy body, like...you know those weird lumps trees sometimes get on their branches? Look like bird nests but aren't? It's like that, I think. Isolates the disease, like this isolated the taint from my blood into a little...ball-thing inside me. Gotta be different with you though, if there's no taint left at all?"

"None." Aedan said after a moment's pause; "Much as I can sense it inside you, though it is weak, there is none within Fiona." He squinted, brows furrowed as if in great concentration; "Not a trace, nothing."

"Maric wasn't a mage or something, right?" Brelyna asked; "I know of the rules about mages and titles, but maybe he was, and nothing was said? Wouldn't be the first time nobility tried keeping magic a secret from the outside world."

"Meaning?" Anora asked, a brief frown of contemplation marring her features before something like understanding seemed to dawn upon her; "You mean Arl Eamon's son, Connor. Your point is not unfair, Brelyna, much as it would meet little reception amongst those in Ferelden loyal to the Theirin line. There was a myth, of a sort, once. That Maric's ancestors shared blood with dragons. Others say Maric himself was a Reaver."

"Reaver?" the Dunmer asked; "A raider of sorts?"

"A warrior who has partaken of dragon blood." Surprisingly, Belisarius offered the explanation; "The Legion encountered a few at Gherlen's Pass, Nevarran sellswords with inhuman ferocity."

"That's the thing where you risk mutations, isn't it?" Talia asked.

"Or just death." Fergus shrugged; "Or nothing at all. It's not...an exact science, I think. I think some end up killing their entire families out of rage..."

"The Council is now in session. All be seated!"

The Emperor waited, beckoning that the herald leave now his task was done. The gold-trimmed man turned and left, offering a bow to the assembly before the ornate doors shut behind him, leaving the room with but their echo, for all of a moment.

It was not often that he assembled the Elder Council in its total. Rare enough was the occasion that he knew many of them even now buzzed quietly amongst each other, pondering the cause. He was well enough informed and kept so on the state of the Empire, grim though such news always were. Even after all he'd done, after all the work and efforts he'd put into readying them for when the elves came again, there was yet one piece of the puzzle lacking.

There was still one position that required... rejuvenation.

"Senators." He began, rising from his seat. When they mirrored him, as was tradition, he beckoned that they sit again. He only stood, so that he could walk, slowly pacing 'round the massive table; "Countrymen. All of you have worked tirelessly for the Empire, for its people and its prosperity. Our roads are paved and free of brigands, our cities prosperous and our people fed. Our legions march proudly, bearing arms and armor forged of quality steel. Day and night, the foundries bloom and blossom with the fires of industry, and our farmlands grow richly with wheat and fruit. We have made progress beyond the dreams of our forebearers, and the credit goes to you, Sers."

"However," he continued, breaking his pace not at all; "We are yet not prepared. You all know of what I speak, Senators. You all know for what reason I have driven the Imperial war machine these last thirty years, why I have raised Legion upon Legion, and poured gold beyond measure into projects some considered...vague."

The senators knew who they were, he'd no need of even glancing in their direction to know they averted their eyes from his.

"Now, our forces march armed with weapons we'd not dared dream of a mere decade ago. Our borders have been fortified twice over and the populace supports its fighting men and women. With Skyrim and Morrowind brought back under our control, the Empire needs only Hammerfell for mankind to once more stand united..." he paused, having completed the circle to once more stand at his own seat, weathered hands clasped on its polished stone; "But, for the time being I believe complete reunification to be some ways off, yet. As it stands we have reaffirmed our bonds of friendship with the Redguards, secured peace in Skyrim and brought Morrowind back into the fold, under the guarantee that as they meet the tithe of raw materials, shall be exempt from other means of taxation for the time being. Furthermore, we have strengthened the alliances with the nobles of High Rock, such that the infighting of its kings will be put aside should they be asked to take up arms for the Empire... Senators, you know as well as I that we may soon enough find ourselves the recipient of yet another elven host from the Summerset Isles, this one no friendlier than last they paid us a visit."

None spoke, though dour faces betrayed their thoughts.

"I have led this Empire for well over forty years, shorter indeed than most Emperors can boast, yet I also only received the throne at an, shall we say, advanced age." His chuckle was without mirth; "I will not repeat the mistakes of my forbearers, who clung to power when their time possessing it was by all means at an end. Crown Prince Octavian returns from Morrowind within the next week. When he does, he will do so in the triumph of a conquering hero, an idol for the people to cast reverence upon. He will arrive here, at the White-Gold Tower, walking 'neath a rain of dancing petals with the blood of Tiber Septim himself as his companion. Here then, on the steps of the Tower, I will announce to the people and himself my abdication, and bestow upon him the crown I've borne too long already."

Octavian had become acquainted with the Dragonborn during his campaign in Morrowind, a meeting that had been no more coincidence than the extinguishing of its rebellious noble houses. The coming war was going to be a brutal one, all-out fighting for the future of all life. There would be no rules, no laws of conduct towards the foe, from either side.

The people would need hope.

They would need the times of Tiber Septim to come again, the dragon-blood General who claimed Tamriel alongside its new Emperor. He would give the people hope, hope and legendary deeds to inspire songs years from now. He might have brought together Octavian and Tulius' Legate, but it was the Prince's own charisma, blunt character and thirst for glorious legends that had served to forge them as companions. Now, they would return together, and put in place the final piece of the puzzle that was Mankind's - and indeed all life's - bulwark.

It was due time, indeed, for Dragon-blood to return home to the heart of Tamriel.

"I'm getting a headache..." Aedan muttered, rubbing his temples. Maker damn it all, he'd not thought a possible cure for the Darkspawn taint would be this...convoluted, was a mild word for it. He'd also not imagined that it'd come from Alistair's mother, of all people on the face of Thedas, nor that it involved blood.

Well, okay, maybe he had suspected it would involve blood. After all, it had with Talia, and only if he truly, deliberately focused on it could he sense a shred of the Taint still lingering within her. Compacted into a cyst, she'd said. He still didn't entirely get how it worked, but...if it did, then...

"Not just me, then?" his brother frowned; "This whole business... Look, let us say we can actually find a cure for the Taint..."

"We?" He cocked a brow at his brother; "Thought Wardens were outside of politics, that you're not supposed to meddle?"

"Pfeh." Fergus scoffed at him, and a smile was hard to resist at his brother's reaction; "Should've said that when Duncan came to Highever, Brother, or when they chained me to Anora. Crown's too involved with the Wardens now as is. And, if I am to be honest, therein lies the crux of the whole thing..."

"How's that?" General Belisarius asked, his voice dry and without humor. It fit his appearance well, better than the courteous manners he'd greeted them with; "If you don't mind my asking, Majesty."

"Grey Wardens are, as my brother dear mentioned, supposed to be outside of the politicking of nations. Neutral, if you will. Of course, that all goes straight out the window the moment the Ferelden Crown officially lends its support to the Order developing a cure for the Grey Warden Taint, 'specially as it implies we're aware of how the whole damn deal works, Joining and all. If Grey Wardens can be cured, it stops being this noble Order of fatalistic warriors destined for death either by insanity or the sword, though few enough know of the first part, luckily..."

"We'll be stripped of the pedestal." Talia surmised, and Fergus nodded.

"Other nations will see it as us trying to secure Grey Warden support, influence them even. At any rate it'll upset a great deal of great men. And with your presence, and Talia being the one actively looking for a cure, it'll probably be seen as Imperial corruption seeping into the most noble of Thedas' Orders."

"And?" Aedan snorted, almost amused at the prospects. Sardonically, if nothing else; "They're already throwing Exalted Marches at us. Can't really get much worse."

"It can always get worse, brother." Fergus groused; "Personally, I am behind your quest for the cure. Maker knows I'd not mind my brother growing old. Been enough death around me for a lifetime, far as I care."

"My sentiments entirely." Anora put a hand on her husband's, a show of support Aedan was glad his brother had; "However, as it stands Fergus is correct. Any meddling with the Wardens will have repercussions..." she drew a short breath of air, as if clearing her mind; "Luckily, as Aedan said, we already find ourselves at the center of so much revulsion and spite, it'd hardly make a difference. The true question, as I see it, is whether we, if we do indeed come up with a cure from this mess, make it known beyond this room that such has been achieved. Fiona already created the precedent of a Warden no longer carrying the Taint, two more, whilst it would garner some attention from Weisshaubt, no doubt, would be more readily accepted. I think... General?"

Belisarius frowned, his one eye seeking the desk for a moment as he drew on his pipe. He'd been a hard enough man to read before the explosion, but now so much of his face was marred or outright missing, it was damn near impossible to gauge him.

"The Emperor values stability, peace amongst Men, before all else." he finally said, putting the pipe down; "Thedas must be at peace, if the Dominion comes for it. They just might, for the sake of butchering unsuspecting humans if nothing else... The Grey Wardens, as a politically neutral entity, is quite frankly an achievement worthy of praise. I do not think he would want it jeopardized, not as long as Darkspawn yet exist, at least..." So much of his face had been left deadened, it was difficult to see the frown as he spoke, though his voice did at least give some of it away; "That said, my mandate stands to ensure the sovereignty of Ferelden and its lands. From a certain point of view, I suppose one could say that would include ensuring the survival of members of the Royal family..."

To even his own apparent surprise, no one else spoke when he stopped, which prompted him to pause on the pipe and instead sigh, placing the still-smoking piece of wood on his desk.

"Yes, I am willing to assist however I can, provided it not go against the established laws of Ferelden or those of the Grey Warden Order." He tapped the desk with some contemplation, the scraped his chair out from it and stood; "That said, I will have to make contact with the Imperial City first to see if I am at all able... Majesties, Wardens and company, Serah Fiona, I believe we can reconvene at a later time, once the shock has settled."

Strangely, Fergus simply nodded, as did Anora. Aedan hadn't expected them to agree on being dismissed - being King and Queen ought mean the roles were reversed - though then again, their relationship with the General could hardly be called normal. The Empire was largely the reason Ferelden still existed, there probably was some debt to be settled there, he supposed. Not exactly an uplifting thought, though...

Once in the corridors, he realized with a small start that Talia had not followed them out, and nor had Fiona. Though when he turned, the former at least emerged from the General's study, something clutched between clenched fingers. A piece of parchment.

A glance at her face betrayed that, if whatever was on her mind now was from the parchment rather than the meeting, it had not been cheerful writing.