Story note:

Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes then, please, do so.

So, there you have it, chapter eleven. I've been taking far too long if you ask me, but work has been time consuming these last few weeks and now, soon, university will start again. But I guess I'll be able to post chapters, at least halfway regularly. I hope you'll all be able to forgive if I can't at times. But I'll try, I promise you that much, if nothing else. In addition to that, I made some changes to the future plotline here and there. It just didn't feel right anymore, but, I guess, now it does. Maybe someday, when I'm finished with this story, I'll write how I first wanted to conclude my story. But from now on, I should be able to write more quickly, because I've outlined nearly all future chapters of this story, or have them swirling around somewhere in my head.

So, enjoy! And, as always, please leave a review and I'll be a happy and motivated author.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XI

Shrouded paths yonder

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Araris startled awake, a heaving gasp escaping his cold and trembling lips. Sweat covered his shivering skin underneath layers of sheets and blankets, everything drenched. The mattress beneath equally soaked wet. But, well, a real mattress, notwithstanding that particular fact. Better than a too-small cot or a patch of dirt. Beds, a luxury he'd been deprived of for far too long in his account.

Even after a few days spent solely with the task of resting and letting his battered body regenerate, his personal stance hadn't changed. Even what with all the sweating and panting. Not one night had passed since his defence of Redcliffe village in which he hadn't sprung awake in the middle of the night, a scream of excruciating pain ready to escape him. Memories of the force-healing the elderly enchanter, Wynne, had to put him through in order to pull him back from death's door, still cursed through his every waking thought. Especially after he woke, then it was usually at its worst. Wrenching spasms convulsed through his muscles and icy shard-like sensations stung his bones and lit his nerves aflame. Thankfully, by now, Araris found himself able to stomach these vicious wake-up calls his own body regularly put him through. Though sleep always eluded him afterwards. Nothing to be done about that, other than hobble about the eerily empty and silent castle like some haunting spectre of past times. A frightening bedtime story for children. Wheezing, shuffling and squirming. How degrading for him. His pride as beaten as his body. The only worse experience had been being carried up into the castle's comfy chambers like some cripple, never to walk again. All the while folk stared at him in awe and gratefulness.

So he set out to do just that. Hobble and shuffle about, grim stalker of the night. Throwing off the drenched sheets, Araris swung his bare feet out of the bed, touching the cobbled flooring, warmed by a nearby cackling hearth. He threw on a pair of leathern trousers, his calf-high riding boots and a linen shirt. On the way out of his chambers he quickly threw a long coat over his slender shoulders, to top it all off. Wisely, he opted to do so. Nights shortened and became increasingly chilly, autumn fast approaching. Ferelden's iconic and usually harsh winter, with its long enduring snowfall and at times even brutal blizzards, soon behind. Already palpable with every breath Araris took and the fresh air filling his lungs, as he walked the old castle's high crenellations. Fortunately, the air remained undisturbed that night. No breeze to make him shiver underneath his garments. Nonetheless, unaccustomed to his new haircut, temples shaved, everything felt cooler than usual. His ears not kept warm and cosy.

Always prepared, Araris fished his already stuffed wooden pipe out of the coat and lit it. After all, his nightly time of therapeutic wandering and plaintive reflectiveness was the only undisturbed time of the day. Up until dawn and the day's pale first light, greying the heaven. Also, these solitary moments were the only opportunity to smoke without Wynne – good Circle mage that she'd been trained to be – breathing down his neck about how this hindered his recovery. But where his principals were involved, Araris knew himself to be a stubborn bastard. A heavy boulder, edges sharp, rooted firmly in the ground. Only because the elderly healer told him to stop he surely wouldn't. For that, he enjoyed it far too much. Life's simple pleasures.

Araris scanned the lake and the village below. Deserted. Lifeless. Asleep. Such a serene calm loomed above the place, the moon's silvery orb reflected on the lake's still surface, nearly a perfect replicate, glittering and glimmering.

He heard the faint flapping of wings behind him, then a spicy scent filled his nose. Araris knew what that meant. He'd sniffed it the first moment he met the woman. She wore it like cologne, proudly and unabashed. For everyone to spot, if one knew how.

Shapeshifter. Soultaken. Those who know a beast's soul so well, they can veer into its form.

'Greetings, witch.' He took another soothing drag of his pipe, inhaling deep. The hazy smoke rose in twisted tendrils, slowly worming its way into the gloomy sky.

'Keen ears.' A voice drawled, sounding a bit surprised, 'Not many would've heard my approach. At least, not many to talk about it afterwards. Unexpected, from a noble born.'

'My heritage I cannot change.' He shrugged under his coat. 'My skill, I can train.'

'That much is clear to me, by now.'

Footsteps towards him, then Araris felt a presence at his side. Regarding what lay below, just like he. Peeking at her silhouette his heart clenched. Morrigan looked so much like her alleged sister. If she even knew about her? But voicing his unsated curiosity could be unwise, so he remained silent, idly smoking his pipe.

'And I thought myself alone in enjoying night's silence.'

'Pleasant night, isn't it?' Araris mused.

Morrigan snorted contemptuously. 'All nights are such. Pleasant, that is.' Her speech deepened into a sneer, 'Bereft of pestering fools and whining cowards. Without all the panicked hustle and bustle civilised folk seem to adore so much. Not that they thrive in it.'

'They can be quite obnoxious, at times, I admit.'

Her response proved unexpected. 'Ha!' The wilder witch chuckled. She peered over towards him, features lit up in faint amusement. 'Do you even know what they call you?'

'Alas, I heard,' breathed Araris into the night. 'Knight of the Maker, sent down be He Who Watches from the Blackened Throne.'

'Oh, of course. He Who Watches. How ludicrous. He doesn't even care about these foolish dimwits, much less watch. Laugh and weep at their pitying behaviour, more like,' derided she.

Glum, Araris added, 'True, indeed. But they don't comprehend the gaping hollowness of their actions. And when they're afraid and don't know how to proceed, they huddle around divinity, seeking shelter in prayer. That they do understand, very well thanks to the unabating teachings and mind-hazing propaganda of the Chantry. Normal folk don't quite realise that every evil or bad thing, as they're hasty to label such occurrences, isn't necessarily evil or bad. I myself do not believe in such diametrical opposites. There's just cause and consequence, the reaction stemming from a specific reason. Most often because of a very simple one. A singular reason for all the trouble and misery tormenting this world.'

'That'd be?'

'That man is the greatest animal of all,' voiced Araris, his speech now uncannily similar to his father's, whenever he lectured him, though the subject more nihilistic by far. A shudder drove through him at that. 'It is only we who can decide and change our fates. No one else.'

Araris felt Morrigan agreeing besides him, if only with her lumbering silence. One she broke after a short time of nagging hesitance.

'My mother would've liked you,' the daughter of Flemeth muttered. 'I think.' Then she scoffed and remained silent once more. Araris, too, refrained from speaking, knowing the woman besides him searched for further words to voice.

'This has proven to be quite . . . invigorating. Against rather contrary experience. Words aren't exactly my forte.'

'It seems to me they're well enough.'

Without anything to add, Morrigan silently slipped down the crenellations. Spice filled the air and her black wings spread, the witch soared away into the dark.

Araris' heart once more clenched. To calm his stuttering soul, he took a long drag of his pipe, contentment filling him like the vapour his lungs.

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Oh, how this gnawed and nibbled away at him, bite after bite it sapped of his exhausted essence. It gnawed at him in such a wrecking and devious way. No matter which way he bended his mind, which shrouded path or gnarled tunnel of thought he explored, nothing useful lay at the end of it. Thus it gnawed even more vigorous. He hated not knowing! There was nothing more frustrating and diminishing for Araris to not know.

Even without his surgical command over sorcery, he immediately realised that Teagan had held something back in the Chantry. Something of substantial note, so much that a flicker of moral shame passed through the man, as well as his eyes. He'd held something back and Araris had no inkling what it could be.

Of course, forcefully invading the bann's mind and pry secrets and thoughts out of every nook and cranny was out of question. After all, it'd probably leave an empty hull to wander around, nothing of the nobleman himself. Much like the risen dead, incapable of the simplest of intellectual challenges.

So, naturally, to empty his awry thoughts of all the mind-famishing gnawing, Araris took to mending his battered body and regain his old form. Not an easy task after multiple fractures and lacerated organs. Sleep eluded him and standing all day and night long on the crenellations simply wasn't an option. So, in the paling grey of a new day, Araris wandered down into the ancient castle's courtyard. He relieved the small smithy nearby of a fresh whetstone and began to care for his plain longsword. First he sharpened it, before caressing it with a piece of cloth sopped in oil.

Half a bell later and, as always, right on time, approached the dark-skinned and white-haired from of the qunari, Sten. They nodded their morning greeting at each other, contempt to savour the stillness of morn. Much like Araris, the qunari would first scrupulously tend to his weapon. Then he'd warm up with a few standard swings before seamlessly continuing with more skilful ones.

Araris had already debated with himself whether or not he should ask the lumbering fellow to spar with him. But until today, he'd always settled against it, for various obvious reasons. The qunari stood even taller than him, if not by overly much. Though as packed with muscle as he was, he must at least weight twice as much as Araris, or nearly that. Evident by the massive broadsword the fellow hefted and swung around like a mere walking stick. A blow from that would surely cleave him in two. Not to mention his own injuries. Wynne would've a fit if she heard of this, but well, he needed a bit of excitement, if nothing else to take his mind off his raging thoughts.

'Sten!' He called.

The qunari stopped his flurry of exercise movements, frowning at him.

Araris rose, longsword in hand. 'Would you spar with me?'

The frown deepened. Then he grumbled, 'Fine.'

They circled each other for some time, gauging, watching with hawk-like eyes for any novice movements. Then they clashed, quickly, without restraint, raw. And broke contact again, their first probe ended. Shortly after their blades met again, ringing loud over the courtyard. Yet, this time, they didn't break contact. Locked they stayed, dancing around each other, swords flashing. Araris thrived, his blood rushing in euphoria. Even though his wounds burned like ravaging rivers of fire. The pain only seemed to spur him, elate him.

Soon Araris felt the qunari establishing his defence, a firm one, yet, nonetheless, retreating step after step. Hence, before the lust for spilled blood consumed him and this wouldn't have been a sparring match any longer, Araris disengaged, taking three swift steps backward, out of reach.

Panting and sweating they stood, staring at each other, sword still held at guard. Then on an unspoken, mutual accord they relaxed their stance, swords pointed to the ground.

'Remarkable,' Sten rumbled, 'if it weren't for my eyes showing me that you're human, I'd say you're one of the Isala'keii.'

Araris frowned, brow wrinkled. 'I've never heard the term.'

'You must only know that they're expert swordsmen.'

'I thank you, then, Sten of the Beresaad.'

'And let me thank you for sparing me the shame of defeat. Though there'd be no shame in losing against someone like you.' With an air of seriousness, the giant continued, 'I announce you Basalit-an.' Purple eyes moved upwards, focusing on something behind Araris. 'It has been witnessed.'

When he turned round Araris spotted the lithe form of the elven Grey Warden, Edril, at the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard, watching them with hooded eyes, gauging.

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They lounged in a study of Eamon's, all three of them together, for a clandestine meeting, of sorts. The contents of their conversation, after all, weren't for anyone's ear. Better to keep quiet about it, if one of the servient staff would overhear their meeting, rumours would be abound like victims to a nasty plague. And that was if they left out the cause for Eamon's sickness and his son's current affliction. Possessed by a demon, that is. An unrelenting headache, all of it.

Small, roundish tables occupied the study. Filled to brim with old correspondence and opened books, taken from the long row of high shelves on the backside wall. Opposite, four opened double windows allowed them a view over the laid out surface of Lake Calenhad, a cool midday breeze easing their steaming minds. The cries of gulls sounded like a beautiful cadence from outside, flying and nesting above.

The Grey Warden and leader of their ragtag group, the dalish woodland elf Edril sat in his low leather chair, legs crossed beneath him. He followed the conversation between Teagan and Alistair over folded hands, piercing eyes unwavering and affixing them with an unsettling intensity. At least, Teagan found himself to be uncomfortable. Alistair not so much or he was simply better adjusted, one of those.

Posture slumped, Alistair breathed out. 'I just never thought that it would come to this. I mean, I knew that the possibility always existed, but . . .'

'I understand, Alistair, it's much to take in. But I'm sure Eamon would say the same in my stead. There must always be one of Theirin blood on the throne of Ferelden otherwise we invite chaos and despair into our lands.'

The young king-to-be ruffled through his short hair. 'Yes, but I've never been trained or schooled for any of this. I've no idea how to rule a country. I don't even want to know. My head hurts at the mere mention of it.'

For the first time during their rigid and unmoving debate, Edril voiced his opinion, 'You'll have to, Alistair. That's all there is.'

Alistair blinked, in stupor. 'What do you mean? All there is?'

A faraway look glazed over the dalish's piercing eyes. 'To life. It throws something unpleasant at you, if you want it or not. You can't choose your lot in life. Only try to make the best of it. And should you stumble and fall, rise and rise again, until what once was a lamb becomes a lion.'

Alistair sighed, then ground out, 'I guess you're right. It's just so much. The responsibilities, I feel like they're weighting me down already.'

Edril nodded sagely. 'You have time, yet, until it comes to that. For now,' his gazed travelled to Teagan, whom rivers of unpleasant sensations crawled down his back at the unfettered attention, 'I'd like to know more about this Cousland fellow.'

Leaning back, the bann clutched his brow in one hand, massaging. 'What's to know?'

'That'd be my question for you, bann.'

'I saw him only once, before now, that is. At the grand tournament during Summerday, the beginning of Bloomingtide, about a decade ago. Beat anyone quite handily. Even the King's Blade at the time, Ser Elric Maraigne. I'll never forget that duel. And if anything, he's gotten better. Though I easily admit, I don't know that much about swordsmanship.'

The Grey Warden sagged back into the comfy embrace of his worn leather chair, fingers tapping on the armchair. 'What else?'

'As I said, Warden, that's the only time I ever saw him. I've never even exchanged words with the man.'

Voice flat, the elf responded, 'I don't care about you meeting him or not. Tell me his story. Rumours, tavern gossip or worse, all of it.'

'There's never much to such slander.' Teagan grimaced.

'But something there always is. A sliver. A corn of truth.'

The Bann of Rainesfere scratched his neck. 'Well, he vanished shortly after that. Nobody really knows why. Some say for a secret lover, but even there different tales exist. Human, elf, dwarf, qunari, male and female, for every combination there's a story. Other rumours said he fathered a bastard child and the shame ate him up. Then there are the tales of him being a powerful sorcerer, maybe even a blood mage or in league with the wilder witch of legend, Flemeth.' Edril grunted a laugh whilst Teagan simply went on, 'There's much more, but I think it won't help us with our current situation.'

'But fact is that, as of now, Araris would be the rightful heir to Highever.' To his side, Alistair startled back into attentiveness at that. 'There's someone else of his family still alive. But she's far away and hers is a far lighter claim than his.'

'Who is she?' Alistair wondered out loud.

'His sister. But I'd rather have him stay oblivious of her existence. Otherwise he might run off in search for her.'

Edril soaked up everything in ghostly silence, whilst Alistair had an air of discomfort and unease written all over his features. 'Do you know where she is, Teagan?'

'The University of Orlais. And she's barely ten winters old.'

Alistair coughed, then gaped unabashed. Flummoxed, Edril looked at them. 'I imagine that's a feat?'

Avuncular, Alistair laughed and explained, 'She'd probably think circles around all three of us. And it'd barely be an effort.' Teagan bobbed his head.

'But why not tell him?' The half-brother of Cailan voiced the source of his itching unease.

'Because Ferelden needs him more than a sister he doesn't even know exists.'

Eyes cast down; Alistair grumbled something inaudible underneath his breath.

'You already said that once.' Edril's eyes narrowed. 'Why?'

'The rebellion. The main bulk of them took up the Cousland banner for their cause, because Loghain sided with the man who slaughtered them, Arl – now Teyrn – Howe.' Unwillingly, Teagan felt fire entering his voice. 'And, of course, because Loghain sacked the throne for himself and left Cailan to die at Ostagar.'

Breathing out, he continued, 'But if there is one who could end the rebellion peacefully or unite all the insurgencies into a single large host, it'd be him. Even Loghain would've to bow his knee to such a force. Not that he would, I imagine. Taken as his mind is by an imaginary Orlesian invasion.'

'I see.' Edril let his head fall back. 'Then we've to gauge Cousland's intentions, best at dinner, tonight. If he were to take up arms, then that could lead to a disastrous outcome. If this rebellion chafes away all human armies the Darkspawn will stand unopposed. And no combined force of elves, dwarves and mediocre mages will be able to hold them.'

Sullenness overcame them at the mention of the looming blackness, drawing ever nearer. Even the fast dwindling rays of sunshine of late summer didn't manage to elate the fraught state of mind.

'A question, if you're not bothered, Warden.' The dalish gestured for Teagan to continued, so he boldly ventured forward, 'I've always been led to believe that your people despise mine.'

The elf chuckled. 'They loathe them, Bann Teagan, to be precise. I simply don't . . . care for such trivialities, for I never really shared my kin's hatred for yours. You fought us long ago, we lost and were enslaved. Then we rose and fought for our freedom, helped by your Andraste. We won, only to squander our victory in isolation. And when we wouldn't come to your aid, our races warred again.' That intense, skin-flaying and soul-piercing stare returned. 'My kin lost once more.'

In reminiscence, Teagan found he'd have done better without hearing that bit of iron pragmatism from the dalish Warden.

'At dinner, then?'

They all nodded their consent, only Edril not visibly discomforted by the air pregnant with palpable tension.

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The dinner had been exquisite. Too long it had been since Leliana ate so grandly, in the homely halls of a great castle. If there was one thing, well actually two, she missed from her time spent as a bard in Orlais, then that'd be the lavish balls and the extravagant dinners. Which, admittedly, went both hand in hand.

Intuition spoke to Leliana's gut. The arlessa would soon voice what hid behind the numerous glances she'd stolen into Araris Cousland's direction the entire evening. It turned out rather unpleasant.

Leaning to her brother-in-law, Isolde said, not at all hushed, 'What's this brute doing at my table anyway, Teagan? I should order a nice, long whipping for the one who cared for this seating arrangement.'

The man in question coughed. 'This, uh, is Araris, second son of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, Isolde.' With gravitas, he added, 'Heir to the Teyrnir of Highever. And without him the village would've fallen.'

Elegantly, the arlessa wiped her lips with a nearby napkin, deftly covering up whatever emotion flicker over her face. 'I see,' spoke she, 'you're the one who ran off, yes?'

Teagan sighed in exhaustion, hiding his face behind one palm.

Meanwhile Araris Cousland swallowed his last bite of salted fish, then laid back, fingers crossed over his stomach. 'Quite assuming of you, arlessa. But, yes, I am he.'

Isolde swatted his first statement aside. 'What's assuming? You ran off, quite cowardly, too, wouldn't you say. What was the reason for that, anyways?'

Teagan perked up to intervene. 'Isolde-' Alas, too late.

The young nobleman's bright eyes sharpened; his features flat. 'I'd rather not tell.' His foreboding gaze dared the arlessa to continue.

And so she dared. 'So, truly, it must've been for a particularity cowardly reason.' She crossed her legs, peering at him closely. 'What was it? A particular nasty kink, hm? Did you strangle some peasant lass whilst ploughing her? Or did you maybe impregnate her? Or both?' She put delicate fingers to her mouth, mocking, 'O, or did you dabble in forbidden arts and black magic? Tell me, I'm rather mystified.'

Voice chilly, Araris ground out, 'Then you'll have to stay mystified, arlessa, for I'll not sate your curiosity where it doesn't belong.'

Leliana stole a quick glance around. Every conversation had ceased, every motion stopped. No one ate or spoke. All watched. Some in trepidation like Bann Teagan or Wynne, others flabbergasted like Alistair – unable to wrap his head around the way Araris spoke back to the arlessa – and then some, like they're wont to do, with a cold analytical gaze like Edril and Sten.

In the silence the arlessa tapped her finger against her cheekbone, a bemused and haughty expression dancing over her features. 'But you see, it does belong. You're under my roof and I like to know whom I house. And it's all in good fun, after all. We nobles simply have to have a few things which set us apart from the plebeian herd we shepherd. But we can't have you keeping all your mysteries and secrets to yourself, now can we. It's eating me up.'

'I'm glad something's eating you up.'

Isolde blinked at the retort, baffled, understanding not fully dawned. But Leliana had an uncomfortable inkling that things were about to turn unpleasantly sour.

Her tone motherly, she asked, 'What do you mean with that, young man?'

'Well, if not the slaughter of nearly your entire herd of plebeians, as you so nicely put it, as a direct consequence of your incapable actions, then I'm at least glad that my self-imposed ostracism has you all emotionally riled up. It's the perspective that counts, now isn't it, arlessa.' Finished, Araris took a sip of his red vintage.

Redness crept into the arlessa's cheeks, perfecting her look of indignation. 'How dare you?' she squeaked.

The heir to Highever set his glass down. 'How dare I what? Voice the truth. Last I checked that wasn't an affront, though not very well received most of the time. Much less is it a crime. What I perceive as a crime though, are your lunatic actions.' He embraced the room with a gesture. 'I mean look around, where are all your knights? The defenders of Redcliffe? Ah, right, you sent them to search for the Ashes of Andraste, a quite ludicrous quest, whilst walking undead eat your people whole. But why such desperation to chase after fairy tales and myths? Might it be because of your efforts to keep your son's blooming magery from your very own husband, hiring an apostate tutor, who, it turns out, was sent by Loghain to poison Arl Eamon. What luck that you led him in directly through the front gate. And your son must be especially grateful for this prudent teacher you supplied him with. After all, he's now possessed by a demon, must count for something.' Hardness eased into his voice. 'Loghain must've laughed his balls off at your all-encompassing idiocy.'

Araris gaze wandered to Teagan, a tad bit apologetic. 'Don't beat yourself up, Teagan. This castle's walls have as many ears as every other castle. Secrets don't stay that way very long.'

Composure stunned but not beaten, venom filled the arlessa's voice like a true Orlesian noblewoman, 'You sad, wretched little worm. How this must truly weight on you, to project your miserable failures onto others. It really does gnaw at you, doesn't it? Knowing that you failed your family, that you betrayed their trust. That they'd be alive, if it weren't for your absence. You might've just killed them yourself.'

Even Leliana flinched at the arlessa's scything words. Teagan made to grab Isolde's arm, but she swatted the attempt aside like a pesky fly, her gaze never leaving the young nobleman.

Yet, somehow, of all of them, Araris managed to stay calm, outwardly, at least. His rigid posture and lifeless features spoke of iron control, worthy even of a masterful Orlesian bard. Impressed though she may be, Leliana knew this couldn't be salvaged anymore.

'It seems I've overstretched my stay. I always believed the halls of Redcliffe to be of warmer welcome, but alas, times are changing. To you Bann Teagan, I say thank you, for jestingly advising me to leave my dagger back in my quarters.' Several gasps echoed and Leliana heard the rustle of chainmail as those few Redcliffe knights present grabbed the handles of their sheathed weapons. 'To you Warden, and all your companions, I wish the best of luck in your fight against the Darkspawn. I believe we shall meet again before all of this is ended.'

Araris rose and walked to the end of the table, looking directly at Isolde. 'And to you Arlessa Isolde, I sincerely hope that your son may never inherit a single one of your traits. If so, Redcliffe shall soon burn on the stake. Troubled by anarchy and chaos; your lands conquered by riots.'

'I bid you farewell now.'

Turning, he made for the door.

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Into the heavily oppressive quiet Edril ventured, his artfully tattooed face scrunched up, 'Was that wise?'

'No, it wasn't.' Teagan stared hard at Isolde. 'What were you thinking?'

'Thinking? You really need to ask, Teagan?' The arlessa puffed up, her accent even more pronounced at her outrage. 'You honestly believe I'll let myself be insulted in my own home? At my table?'

The flat palm of Teagan's hand descended onto the table. The sound slapped like a harsh whip's lash. 'Well, you started it. And trying to extinguish a ravaging fire by adding lamp oil isn't the best of ideas, Isolde! We need this man.'

Furious, the wife of Arl Eamon plucked her silk napkin out of her lap and, accompanied by the raucous scraping of her chair, threw it onto her emptied porcelain plate. 'I'll not put up with this! Much less from you, Teagan, you, who should support me! Not keep your quiet all the time whilst this barbaric-looking filth hurls insults at me and our family. Our, I might remember you!' She turned; the hem of her figure-accentuating gown swishing behind her, Isolde strode out of the dining hall.

Edril's quiet voice seemed to startle not only Leliana in the absence of the arlessa's livid shouting. 'That's not what I meant, actually,' he steered back to his original inquiry. 'Was it wise to let him leave?'

Leliana's mouth went dry, appalled at what their leader insinuated. Bann Teagan gazed at the dalish woodland elf, eyes sharp. 'Your meaning, Warden?'

'Will he hold a grudge?'

The Bann of Rainesfere huffed. 'Of course he will.'

'Enough to move against us?'

'What are you getting at?'

'You yourself said to me, bann, that he,' Edril gestured towards the door, 'is one of the few, if not even the only person able to unite the scattered rebellion hosts into one. A formidable force.'

'Yes, and?' The poor man, Teagan, looked to be at his wit's end. Utterly sapped of energy.

But Edril pressed, 'What if he decides that we are now, too, enemies of his?' He gestured, 'All of us.'

'No,' the bann sagged into his chair, deflated. 'He wouldn't.'

Yet, Edril wasn't finished. 'He knows much. About the arl, about his son and about Alistair too, maybe.'

Teagan sighed heavily, brow cradled in his hand. 'I already told you, he wouldn't. He'll hold a grudge, not make us our archenemies or some such shite.'

Leliana registered the faint smirk this brought to Edril's face. 'Very well, I hope it for all of us.'

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Author's note:

As always, please don't forget to review or send me a private message (whatever you prefer) containing you opinion on my latest chapter. I'd very much like to hear it. They keep me going and motivated to continue this story. Furthermore, without comments, criticism and encouragement I can't better myself. So, if you've anything to say, at all, please do so. I'm eager to listen.