A/N: More divergance from canon events because I like it better this way. Not saying it should've happened this way, but am saying it might have.

XXX

Nose To The Wind, Ear To The Ground…

In which each of the three estranged Wardens finds something, and not one finds what they were looking for.

XXX

The Merchant Quarter was busy, or at least it appeared to be. Various traders paddling their wares, the poorer ones shouting out as they pushed their carts of vegetables and grains, the slightly richer ones doing the same from their stalls. Further in, more stalls crowded the street, larger, sturdier and offering a bit more than bare necesseties for survival: potters and cobblers on one side, cloth and linen on the other. Further ahead, faint smell of fish and sea salt from the direction of the harbour, though the first fresh catch of the morning was sold all the way down at the docks.

Sudden wave of heat from the right, a semi-circular niche and the blacksmith working at the anvil as two apprentices showed off the wares - kitchen knives and sickles, scythes repaired, a large plow resting against the wall - veteran of many harvests and even more breakages. Very few horseshoes; too few.

Down towards the outskirts, the more ramshackle side of the city, more carts and less stalls. But too few wares. Even less people bying them. Refugees huddling in the corners, more beggars than before. Towards the outskirts but to the right as well, alongside the street leading to the upper end of the city - less carts, more stalls, actual shops: finer linen, silks, even a jewlery shop, though small, catering to the less unfortunate ones… windows dusty and a plant in a pot by the door sagging sadly, too worn-out to bother.

The centar square, more vibrant, more alive and with more people mulling about. But still not that many, still not enough. Too many despondent and too few coins to spend. A leather-worker, displaying the wares; closer to the guard houses, few armours on display, cured leather gloves and rough hide boots. Commotion, the chatter, activity… but behind it, more gloom than should underline the busy market cheer. More beggars then cut-purses. Not enough purses to cut.

And somewhere around here - Delilah.

Nathaniel passed the stalls, hand on his purse out of habit, looking left and right, hoping to spot a familiar face and at the same time hoping not to. Not here, not in… this.

It wasn't as he had remembered. It changed, of course it changed - it had to during eight years or so, but still… Once, the place would be bustling by now, even this early in the morning. Once, more guards would patrol the area, even more as the quarters stretched out towards the upper town. Once, they would have rounded up the beggars and shooed them off, away from the shops and main hubs of activity and into the backstreets even before the first stalls were set up. Now, there were hardly any guards at all.

Small children in dirty shirts ran about, shouting and splashing barefooted in the mud. No parents around. Once, the orphans would be tended to by the Chantry, smaller ones cared for and fed, older ones prepared for some craft or sent to the villages to help with the land. Once, when the lands were safe and enough militia patroled them.

Once, before the Blight. Before the war. When his father was the Arl…

…and when his sister had her own room in the Keep, her own maids and her own servants and guards to escort her to the better end of the market during the high summer days. And how she had enjoyed eluding them, all out of sudden ducking under a stall and then shooting like an arrow towards that sweets shop that he was sure was no longer there. He cheked anyway.

People passed him by, their chatter floating through his ears, an occasional shoulder or an elbow temporarily blocking his way. Some murmured pardon-mes, and more often not. Prices of food high and too little to go around. Too many refugees cluttering the streets. The smugglers, bold and growing bolder still. Pirates on the sea. Bandits on the roads. Merchant Guild in problems - caravans attacked in the woods, the trade routes no longer safe. And in more hushed tones, the Darkspawn, everywhere, like it was still a Blight. Praise the Maker the Wardens have arrived; but they were all decimated, haven't you heard? yes, two-three weeks ago; they say that the Vigil barely held out; didn't the new Arlessa bring more with her; why isn't she doing something? shush and watch your tongue, that's the hero of Ferelden you are speaking of, killed the Archdemon she did; may well be so, but what good did that bring us? what can one woman do? she's an elf, did you know? Maker help us…

His head was buzzing and he found his fists clecnhed. He pushed through the crowd in front of him with more force than he had to and made it for a side street to calm himself down. He should go back. Back to Vigil and do something.

…and bring Delilah back with him.

His eyes went back to the square, surveying the hussle and the despodence curling down beneath. She was here somewhere, though he still didn't know where. Samuel had said she had married some merchant? The mere tought of it made his jaw clench and heart constrict. Forced to flee her home, disgraced daughter of a disgraced, murdered Arl, running for her life and reduced to living in this.

He had to find her.

But he wasn't sure how. Steadying his breath, he stepped into the market again, walking more slowly, observing with more care. Ask, yes, but what questions? Once, everybody would know her, by name if not on sight. Now? Perhaps she changed her name? She would have, when she married… He stopped in his tracks, someone bumping into him from behind with a curse. Maker! She wouldn't, would she? No, no, that couldn't be right. Delilah was smart. Surely, she'd drop her last name if she were fleeing - the name of Howe was no longer welcome in these lands. But she wouldn't have married just because of that.

Again his fists clenched as the only logical conclusion presented itself. No, she wouldn't have to marry just to change her last name. Delilah was smart, but she wasn't resourceful; not in the same way he was. He had skills, he had training, experience; he had seen the rougher side of life, way before all this. Delilah hadn't. She had no resources, but she had to live, somehow; she'd need protection, some measure of security and… Maker! His sister had married so she could survive…

His first impulse was to rush right in, and start grabbing people by their necks until one of them tells him where she was. Yet he curbed it, aware that the sight of a wild-eyed madman assauling people in the market would draw quick attention from the guard, what little of them were there. He had to remain calm.

Questions, then. Samuel told him very little, so he had to be smart. A merchant, recently wed. No, he did not know what trade. Lovely grey-eyed girl - Delilah took after their mother - dark hair, mid-twenties? No, no, not a jealous former lover, just an old friend recently come to the city… Where from? Denerim. Does it matter? Heard she was here, just want to say hello… No? Too bad. Know anyone who might know more? Ah well, thank you anyway, will try his luck elsewhere…

XXX

Anders came to, his head lulling and his mana completely drained. His mouth was full of dried blood and he caughed, trying to clear his throat. His feet dragged on the cobblestones, arms tied tightly behind his back, a templar at each shoulder, roughly hoisting him along. Well now, wasn't this familiar?

Alerted by his cough Rylock turned around and gave him a tight-lipped smile. The rest of the templars stopped as well. He could tell she was still livid, but couldn't help himself.

"You missed me so much? I am truly touched."

"Anders…" she nearly purred, the same tight-lipped smile still on her lips. He knew having him helpless was her kink.

She grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. Still dazed, he realized his nose wasn't actually broken. Why wasn't his nose broken? It should have been. Must be he has a stubborn nose.

He licked his cracked lips and gave the templar a smile. "Though I must say I did not expect this much company."

He looked at the templars to the left and right of him. Still in the city, but already close to the gates. Not the same gate through which he had entered the city yesterday; this one was smaller. The few people in the street gave wide berth to the templars and their captive. So… no help there, then. Ah well…

"I was hoping it would be just you and me, you know. Like the old times? Of course, if you realized that I am too much for you…" he went on, equal parts innuendo and provocation. Well, he could hardly get into more trouble than he was already in, yes?

"Ugh!" Or maybe he could, a tought passed his mind as his vision suddenly blurred. His first impulse was to curl up - an approved reaction to having a gauntleted fist rammed into the stomach - but his feet were still dragging behind him, templars still holding him under each arm and Rylock still had a fistfull of his hair.

"Now there, Rylock," he gasped, "Was that really necessary?"

The templar lowered her head until it was nearly on level with his own. "Necessary? Probably not. Highly satisfying? Very much so."

She still held that little smirk of hers, triumphant and angry all at once. And also a tiny bit vicious. Or at least Anders hoped it was tiny.

"That's me - Always aim to please."

He matched her smile for smile, though his stomach was a blaze of pain and his chest working short, choppy gasps. He wasn't entirely certain if he had a cracked rib before but he definitely had one now.

Rylock let out a short chuckle and loosened her grip a bit though she still didn't let go. "You really don't know when to shut up, Anders. I wonder if you even know how to."

No. He probably didn't. "You wouldn't love me nearly as much if I did."

She considered it for a moment. Was it his still unfocused vision or did she really look amused? For a second he tought she would strike him again but… no. Not her. He'd have to work harder than that to annoy her to that level. Good old Rylock - he could always count on her not to dissapoint.

She lowered her voice and leaned even further in. It was actually rather intimate. "Believe me, Anders - 'love' is the last feeling I harbor for you."

She finally let go of his hair and motioned for her templars to start moving again. His head slumped and his shoulder got in serious danger of getting dislocated as the templar to his right yanked him way harder than he had to - he must be a complete rookie, you don't templarhandle mages like that, we're delicate - and he still couldn't resist.

"Truly, Rylock?" He sounded heartbroken. "And I was trying so hard, too."

The templar let out another chuckle, though she didn't stop this time. "And I assure you, mage, that your efforts have not gone unnoticed," she said as her templars dragged him along, out through the small gate and onto the road. "Nor will they go unappreciated. After all, hard work and devotion must be rewarded."

Oh…? Well… that didn't sound good.

XXX

She stalked the city, disheveled and in foul mood. Not as foul as yesterday, but it was only a matter of time. It always was, with her. She was actually just waiting for it - the slightest provocation to set her off. Sadly, none came; not yet anyway. Perhaps it was that the populace was slightly more used to the sight of armed people in their midst, what with the war and the Blight over barely more than two months ago, or perhaps it was he sight of a huge mabari happily panting close to her side; the roughest parts of the whole mess never reached this far to the north, but apparently, it reached north enough for no one to think too much of it. Even if it was an elf. She'd been given a few odd loks, but that was all. Enough to get her slowly boiling again, but not enough to actually snap. Yet.

Eventually, she made her way down to the docks. Not as set on Antiva as she was last night, stubbornness still demanded she checked out the boats. She never got as far as that, though.

She rounded a dirty corner overlooking the harbor below and the slums over to the far right, when she spotted a Vhenadahl. Just the tip of it, but in this part of the city, it couldn't have been anything but that. A memory suddenly knocked into her like a ram.

This was where her mother came from.

Why didn't she remember it sooner? She'd been here for what… close to three weeks by now? Even more? She knew, of course she knew, in that way that people know that the sky is blue and water is wet but never really thought about it. Probably, she slowly came to admit as she neared the walled-off slums, she didn't want to think about it. It's been more than ten years since she had died and nearly as long since she put it behind her: children bounce back quickly, after all. But now that she was here…

Her legs took here there faster than she tought and soon, she was standing in front of the wall - not as high as the Denerim one, but still high enough - silent, and not sure what to do now or why she came at all.

She stood there for a while, palm pressed against the wall and mulled it over. Why would she go in? And what did she hope to find? Someone who still remembered her? Their hahren perhaps? Provided it was someone old enough, that is. Her stomach lurched, as she remembered Valendrian and then the whole incident came back to her in a flash. Except it wasn't an incident - it was planned. And Arl Howe was the one who had planned it… and he was still the Arl of Amarnathine back then, too…

She let out a sharp breath and smacked the wall with an outstretched palm once before she gritted her teeth and went inside. Dammit. She had to find out.

/

She left half an hour later, her mind in complete turmoil and seething with fury. Of course he would do it! Why did she ever think he would not?! And this time with the Alienage so close to the docks it was practically leaning on the backsides of the warehouses, it was even easier to pull off! Especially with the smugglers around. Not the fake blight plague this time - too far north for that - but something exotic and Rivaini; brought in by all the ships or some such nonesense. Slightly different story, same blasted shit. And no blight-damend Warden to stop it this time.

She did not feel obliged or even guilty, not as such. Dammit, she hated the Alienage and it's habitaul, maddening complacency. Apperantly, that was a trend across all of them. She didn't care, but in infuriated her all the same.

Unlike those that were still left. Far fewer than in Denerim. Some suspicion, soon drowned down in the day-to-day wondering of where, and when, will the next plate of food come from. Mostly from that brothel they mentioned, the one ran by some dwarf, deeper in the city. She smirked and spat. The shem may despise the elves but at the end of the day, they were all hungry for some sweet elvish ass. If he were here right now she was sure Zevran would have laughed his off.

She stormed away from the Alienage, her strides so quick Bandit had to step up the pace to keep up.

She hadn't told them who she was. And she never even asked about her mother.

XXX

It was high noon and he was beginning to lose hope. He'd been asking around for hours and still found nothing. Two, three false trails that did lead him to some recently married couple, but not Delilah. Growing both frustrated and hngry, he left the main market area and dove into the cluster of small side streets that outlined the Merchant Quarter in hopes of finding some small tavern and getting some lunch before he resumes his search.

He was just about enter one when he heard a voice behind him - a voice he hadn't heard in eight years - and he froze in his tracks.

"…Nataniel?"

Slowly, he turned around, heart in throat, and only managed a stunned "Delilah…" before the dark-haired young woman rushed into his embrace.