Chapter 10

Kinloch Hold, Lake Calenhad, The Lost Battle in Ostagar, Month 8 - August, 9:29 of the Dragon Age.

Cullen had woken the day after the others had come in. He hurried to his post, overjoyed with the thoughts of seeing the woman who makes his heart skip beats, overheard a few of the mages while he was on duty near the library.

The young Templar - thinking that Deedolett had returned with the rest and anxiously waited to see her smiling face after she had a forced departure, that all had perished on the fields of Ostagar.

He went numb, stumbling as his heart tightened in his chest 'Deedolett was with them, is she among the bodies at Ostagar?' Cullen's mind repeated over and over, never to return and he would never again see her face except in his dreams.

Knight-Commander Greagoir summoned to see Cullen rushing to see the man in a catatonic state slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the wall before him.

"Carry him to the infirmary, then fetch the First Enchanter. Cullen, boy can you hear me?" Greagoir then asked the magi who stood about gaping like fish what exactly happened.

"We were talking about the failed battle as all defeated, then he… collapsed." Finding the three magi were speaking of he understood immediately what Cullen's stupor was pertaining, and even the Knight-Commander himself took pause when he heard.

A while later Wynne stood speaking to Irving and Greagoir, "What caused his condition, I have seen nothing like it." She spoke, looking over at the–now sleeping form of Cullen. It had taken them a while to rouse him from his initial shock. He had not said a word, he just quietly cried to himself and went to sleep shortly after.

Irving tugged at his grey beard and sighed. "Deedolett has died with the other Grey Wardens at Ostagar." Wynne stiffened. She saw the young Elven girl there the night before, she and the others were given the word to return home from Teyrn Loghain himself.

"Cullen was… in love with her. He has taken it hard. I think we should reassign him to a different station." Irving finished looking at the Senior Templar.

The Knight–Commander nodded his head. "I will have the others monitor him for any changes. I will send out other areas that may need his talents." And with that, the older Templar left the two magi.

"I cannot believe it, I just saw her, she was so bright…." Wynne folded her arms and hung her head slightly.

Irving agreed and patted her on the shoulder. "Uldred has asked for a meeting in a few days." Wynne nodded her head and walked to check Cullen before she turned in for the night herself.

Denerim Market, Month 2 - Guardian, 9:30 of the Dragon Age

It had been a fight and flight for Jowan when he had first escaped Kinloch Hold that dreadful night those many months; he found himself on the verge of collapse as he entered the gates of Denerim, going to seek refuge within the large city.

He had discarded his mage robes some time ago from a dead man on the road. His luck continued to look up as a stranger had dropped his coin purse just feet away. With the few coins left in hand, Jowan survived on making his way to the large city, heading to a shop, stomach aching with hunger. He sold his robes and what little valuables he had collected. Taking the bit of coin, he headed to the nearest tavern, where a group of men were announcing they were seeking a mage to assist the Regent and no harm would come to them.

Taking them up on their offer. His stomach had to wait. They presented him to Loghain Mac Tir, Regent of Denerim. Loghain presented Jowan with a task. He needed him to make way to Redcliffe to assist Arl Eamon.

Jowan was hesitant at first, having only agreed when he had a purse heavy with coins dropped in his hands. Once again, he donned his mage robes after being whisked away shortly thereafter. When he was within the high walls of Redcliffe Castle, Jowan was greeted by Arlessa Isolde, whom she thought hired. She beseeches him to tutor her son Connor in secret, as he had shown signs of magic some time ago.

Jowan agreed, finding no time to do Loghain's bid. Within the week, Connor's magic took a frightening turn. The castle soon overrun with horrors not even Jowan could do anything to prevent. Jowan was soon locked away in the castle's dungeon. And there he sat for days that turned into weeks that turned into months–surviving on rats, if there were any.

The dead bodies that were thrown down initially became the undead that was clamoring for him, reaching through the iron bars flesh-worn fingers stretched, their groans frightening as Jowan did his best to fend them off and could sleep only during the day he gauged the monsters only came at dusk.

Redcliffe Village, Month 6 - Justinian, 9:30 of the Dragon Age.

Just on the path Olett stood dumbfounded, coming to hear about the condition of Arl Eamon from one of his men in the hamlet of Lothering. Ser Donall had given Alistair the news that his uncle was sick before Cailan lost his life. As disheartening as it was for him to hear, already saddled with the loss of his mentor, Duncan.

They have just learned the reason for Alistair's sudden quiet and his immediate need to come to Redcliffe first. He was not the illegitimate son of Arl Eamon, but Maric Theirin, deceased monarch of Ferelden, Father of slain King Cailan, Alistair's half-brother.

The news to him was still fresh from when he found out. "I never shared with you much about myself, had I?" Still, he debated whether to include this information.

Shaking her head, her braid slipped loose, tucking it in place. "In reality you know little of me as well." Olett said as they stood on the path overlooking Lake Calenhad, behind the Village.

"Right. You first." If he would prolong this, then he will stall.

Olett thought for a moment then found one thing she knew that could be outlandish but true. "I can read as well as translate a beautiful, peculiar text." She looked at the tall man next to her. As expected he seemed to not believe it. "You."

Taking a deep breath, he overlooked the lake, "Well… I am the direct descendent of Calenhad." Alistair cleared his throat.

Olett placed a finger on her chin, her face twisted, then relaxed. "You are having a game with me." She cuckold, nudging him with her elbow.
She reached into her bag, pulling from it a piece of parchment that had some of the Elvish script from the letter she found, on Ser Kal'an. Handing it to Alistair.

"No. For once I am not joking." He looked at the text and the translation. Handing Olett back her parchment.

Opening her mouth, she closed it, not sure how to answer what Alistair revealed. "Calenhad Theirin, … Maric Theirin… Cailan..." She ticked off the names she knew, counting on her fingers.

"Cailan's brother…. Alistair Theirin." He nearly whispered.

Olett's eyebrows went up in amusement. "That would make you a Prince." She chuckled, finding it amusing, looking at her fellow Warden, the amusement ended. "You are a Prince?" Crossing her arms, she considered its deeper meaning. Shutting her eyes tight, she pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Well, yes, and no. I am Maric's son, but I had no claim to the throne, which was one of many reasons for my being sent to Redcliffe with Uncle Eamon."

She dropped her arms, turning to face him, "You had no intention of telling me or any of us, did you?" She shrugged, her hands hit her thighs in exasperation.

Alistair looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, I did not want you to treat me differently. I would not know what it feels like to be noble…"

Olett rummaged through her backpack and stood facing him once more. "I figure this is rather important, seeing as how Theirin should rule Ferelden?" Grabbed his wrist and placed her most prized book in his hand.

He looked at the cover. Frowning, "I slept in the barn, mostly. When I was ten, they sent me to the Monastery because of Arl Eamon's wife, she thought I was his son and in competition with her child." Handing the book back to her.

She pressed the book to his chest. "I see, well, shall we see if we can be of assistance to your people?"

As they took the path down to the village, they were met with one of the Redcliffe residents, Seeking help that was something other than what plagued them come the night.

Meeting with Bann Teagan in the Chantry, most of the village had been holding up here, "Alistair is that you?"

"Uncle Tegan. What is going on here?"

"Have you heard?"

"The very reason we are here, as well as seeking aid for the Blight."

Tegan nodded, "I do apologize, we cannot spare any men, with Eamon ill from Loghain…"

Olett's features change, "What?"

"Aye. Excuse me, I have tasks to handle before night you but spare a moment, can you assist us?"

"Absolutely."

Morrigan disagreed instantly, "Tsk."

Leliana agreed to lend her arm, with Sten going to argue how pointless it is to fight a battle that had not been won for days.

"Sten, this is what we are doing now, with the Blight. I need the help. Just us alone will not be enough. Please lend me your sword, Morrigan, your magic, please?"

When the blanket of the night brought horrors from the hilltop, they survived til dawn from the haunts that clamored into the village from the path leading to the castle.

The day greeted them, the dog peeled back over the lake like a thick blanket, the sun brightening the sky as they planned which route to take into the castle.

"We do not know what is going on in the castle, all scouts I have sent none reported back." Bann Teagan, offered.

The front was out of the question, Morrigan provided little help as figures this alone was a waste of her time, and talent.

"What 'bout the old windmill?" Came from one of the castle staff who escaped the horrors from the very spot they offered.

As they circled that idea, it seemed to be the only viable solution. Heading out of the Chantry along the path, the group would double back to the windmill. "In it you will find a tunnel that leads to the dungeons. Be careful."

It wasn't long until a figure emerged, heading towards them from the very path they had previously planned to scout. Arlessa Isolde, Arl Eamon's wife, who sought help, citing that only Teagan may go with her for fear of more within the walls being slaughtered.

With the plan to sneak into Redcliffe underneath the windmill already in action. It was a matter of waiting. They made their move. Deedolett, Sten, Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana met with several more undead that littered the way in.

"This is idiotic!" Morrigan growled as she shattered one of the frozen-like statues Olett had caught in her frost spell.

"Do not complain, witch. My family needs us!" Alistair bit out just as quickly.

"I will send you both–" Deedolett paused. The Witch and Refute-Templar continued to bicker and the Elven mage tilted her head slightly, waving her hand to silence them completely.

"Olett?" The bard quietly approached her friends' side arrow notched.

With hurried steps they headed deeper into the lower level of the castle, now the dungeons, where they saw the undead reaching through the bars of a cell, none paying attention to the living company present among them.

"Maker please, I am sorry for everything… please!" A voice heard faintly that reached fixated her Elven ears coming from the hold that the monsters were on, then the weakest of flames puffed its way out through the clamoring hands.

"Leliana, head there." Pointing to a shadowy area, then at the number of undead lines up. With a nod, the redhead did as told, taking aim with her bow ready.

"Morrigan, Alistair please…"

Both came to a silent truce. Morrigan murmured a spell beneath their feet, Alistair's sword positioned, taking his place before the Elven mage. Arrows shot out. Spells flew, followed by the slashing of Alistair's sword. Dispatching them quickly, Leliana went to send others who waited for the path to be cleared to the castle.

Grabbing Alistair's wrist, "Go now, hurry them!" She whispered harshly. The Elven mage peered into the darkened cell, the shape of a huddled, filthy, naked, emaciated body of a man with shaky outstretched hand weakly sobbing to the Maker.

"Are you well Sir?" Olett asked softly, crouched low to the floor at eye level to the person in distress. A raven head wryly raised, a pair of sunken brown eyes shone dully in the dark. "Jowan!?" Olett gasped. Fresh tears poured down his dirty, hallowed face,

"Thank you... Maker..." As he collapsed from exhaustion.