Disclaimer: The Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.

Chapter 3 - A Casual Encounter

"Leliana spoke to me, you know, about how eager you were to forfeit your life in the final battle – she was afraid for you, said you became reckless…"

"I had to end a Blight, Zevran!"

"Yes, yes. You're saying it as if the burden was yours alone. Not ours, not the Wardens', but yours alone. You used to trust us, to rely on us, to believe we were good for something – even me. When did this change, my friend?"

"It changed, Zev," Morrigan said scornfully, "when Good King Alistair threw a fit, chose to turn his back on everybody and forgot about the Blight in a whim. You know, when he decided to seize the throne of a country and forswear his duty only to have a man's head, let blood thirst get the best of him. Not to mention that this treachery here happened while the said king refused to lead his own army in battle and kept back at Redcliffe like a maiden in distress."

"Enough, Morrigan. We all know you never got along with Alistair. And, maybe you are right, but it was my bad judgment that put Anora in position to harm us, not Alistair's. That being said, since Leliana and Loghain decided behind my back that I should be the one Warden who outlived the Fifth Blight, the least I can do is try to protect you all to the best of my abilities."

"I, for one, never felt more sheltered then fighting at your side in my whole life, my dear Warden… Or, at your rear, to be more precise."

"Right." Kallian went on, ignorant of Zevran's quip. "Chances of success are slim whether we're one, or ten. I'd say that we split, and you two try to spread news of me wherever you go in the countryside – so that Anora's scouts won't know where I'm actually heading."

" 'Tis too perilous a plan. And you are unfit to travel on your own, even less so to fight your way inside dungeons full of guards. I say we all head to Highever, and face whatever we find there up front."

"Oh, I'm fit to travel. If I'm unfit to anything now, it is idly chatting around while Anora's men do Maker-knows-what to Wynne and Leliana."

"Well, we could always fly…"

"Fly?"

"Just saying. I don't suppose Morrigan will let us both sit on her back for such lengthy a time as to reach Highever, even if she could shift into something big enough to carry us."

"No. But Morrigan could, and would, shift you into a pitiful pool of limbs and entrails if you don't watch your tongue, elf. And stop speaking of me as if I weren't here."

It took them almost three weeks to reach Highever. All this time, Kallian kept getting snappier and telling everybody they should let her do this thing alone. The awkwardness of finding herself alive in the aftermath of the Denerim battle had rather deepened instead of wearing off. She should have been the one delivering the final blow. She had prepared for it. Not to the point of feeling ecstatic about it, like Riordan had – she'd seen it on his face, the exalted smile etched on his features for eternity as he'd lay crushed in the yard of Fort Drakon – she was not that of an accomplished Warden, but she had been ready and true. It would have been strange to come back to – living, actually – even if everything would have gone as expected; but then, she'd woken up to this. Not that she didn't understand Loghain's wish for redemption – she did, and quite well at that. Still, she couldn't help but think that Loghain would have been much more skilled at dealing with the aftermath; much more influent with the army; much more in power to protect her companions. Maybe it wouldn't have come to this, if Loghain had been the surviving Warden. He would have been able to stop Anora's scheme, and maybe prone to do so, she thought; although she couldn't tell that for sure about a man that she'd only known and fought with for the best part of the one month.

The fact that the bones in her right hand didn't seem to set properly added to her foul disposition. So, when they finally reached the outskirts of the city, the storm clouds that had gathered just above the walls made the dusky afternoon seem to bear an ill omen of sorts, and, although Kallian didn't give much heed to the thought, she couldn't help but shudder.

The city of Highever dominated the southern coast of the Waking Sea. On clear days, the view broadened, allowing one to see far into the sea, sometimes even over to Kirkwall. The high cliffs of the Coastland stood the cause for it, as well as for the irregular shape of the city wall that crawled up the steep slopes, of the narrow streets that took surprising turns and of the tall houses crammed in one another climbing up the rocky ground. The road to the docks wound down rather lengthy and slanted, and a hoist was set to take the heavier merchandise up to town. The castle towered above it all, with its ancient ashlar stones eaten by the salty winds that carved weird shapes in the formerly neat corners of its battlements.

It was indeed a desolate sight - the swarm of refugees crammed outside the walls, and a long line of wagons and carts stood patiently to be admitted to the city, with the occasional bouncing of hoofs or a small snort from mules and horses that looked as worn out as to collapse on spot, while their masters kept to themselves, wearing their ashen brows low in weariness. The place reeked of hopelessness and fear, and, while being a refugee who'd lost home and land and family was no small thing, so much dreariness lurked about that it gave Kallian the feeling something was amiss. There were no children among the refugees, no elder, and few women. The wounded and the sick were cared for in a small makeshift camp on the nearest plateau, but, oddly enough, the familiar sight of Chantry sisters bringing comfort to the dying was missing entirely from the landscape.

"We split." Kallian said in one breath. "We meet here by sundown. Let's see what we can find."

Neither Morrigan nor Zevran had anything to say against it. Morrigan shifted in the shape of a hawk, and she was gone. Zevran cloaked himself and turned to the shadows. Kallian scratched Con behind the ear with her good hand and whispered, absentmindedly.

"Come, let us mingle."

Mingling was quite the impossible task, Kallian soon found out; a scarce few of the refugees carried any weapons at all, and there were no elves in sight. Cloaked, with a dragonbone sword hung bare at her back and a mabari at her heel, she was bound to draw the attention of the few armed guards, who surrounded her and drew blade, demanding submission. While Con seemed bound to a path of violence, and bared his teeth as such, Kallian decided on settling things her way.

"Are you talking to me?"

"Are you stupid, knife-ears? Your sword. Now."

"It's a good sword, sers. I don't part with it lightly. Let me pass."

"You're outnumbered. Give it. It won't be of any use where we're taking you, anyway." The one who had spoken stepped forward, hand outstretched. Wrong move. Con gnarled. Kallian grew slightly annoyed.

"I can take down the four of you here before you can call for help. Don't you have families to go to, to-nite?"

It was pointless. The chances that this would end with no bloodletting grew thinner by the moment. She wouldn't allow herself to be captured at the outskirts of Highever by a handful of clumsy city guards for the sake of peace keeping, though. Weary, she waited for their move, not willing to ruin the surprise of her fighting with a longsword in her left hand. Between the men's indecision and her own disenchantment, Kallian heard commotion behind, and a woman's voice spoke harshly:

"Stay your swords, sers, or face me."

The stranger's words bore consequence with the guards, out of shear fear, it seemed, as they lowered their blades straightaway, and Kallian turned around to face her rescuer. It was a tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in massive red steel armor that who had spoken, and, while the greatsword on her back was likely bigger than Kallian, and looked rather impressive, the dignified features and the hazel eyes betrayed a warm, though contained, disposition and a strikingly young age – she couldn't be more than one or two years older than herself, Kallian thought. Indeed, between herself and this warrior woman – girl – the guards were good as dead, and she afforded a small, private smirk.

"What are you gaping at" the woman said. "Be gone. Now."

As the guards did so to the last, Kallian unwound. A little small talk was in order.

"Why, thank you. That was close. I am Kallian" – of the Grey Wardens, she'd almost said. Too used to it meaning something, she chastised herself. This was not the time and place for display.

"No trouble. You may call me Clarice."

A small beastly whine didn't allow Kallian ignore the party member not yet introduced, and she made haste in setting things proper.

"This is Con."

Clarice stretched a hand for the mabari to smell.

"It is my pleasure." Then she added thoughtfully, not withdrawing the hand that Con seemed very absorbed in sniffing "You must come from afar. This is not a place friendly to elves, particularly armed ones, forgive my blunt words. I'd offer you shelter and food in my small camp, would you be so kind to accept it."

Like always, assessing the state of things didn't take Kallian long. It was highly unlikely that Anora had foreseen as much as to set a trap for whoever went searching for Leliana. And, if she had, she'd probably have chosen somebody – well – more suited than this young warrior with white hair and guileless guise. On the other hand, the enemy of the enemy was a friend, and this woman seemed to be known and feared by the guards. At the very least, Kallian would get a better grip of what was going on in Highever. At the very best, she would find allies, or even a way in. She would do this alone, though, and try not to disclose Zev and Morrigan; if need be, they would trace her easily when she wouldn't show at sundown, and they were both skilled enough not to get caught.

"I would be in your debt."

As they paced away from the crowd, Clarice started talking. It had been not long before the battle at Ostagar that Rendon Howe had slaughtered the Couslands and took over the Highever castle. Her family died in the attack, but Clarice herself had taken a blow to the head and had awakened in a pile of dead bodies in the moat; she'd managed to the woods somehow. She had been rescued and mended by some poachers. Since then, she'd built a little company, and they'd entered the city several times; she'd given the city guards as hard a time as she'd been able. It went without saying that she'd been seeking revenge – but there was more to it. Levies had been collected three times over. Strange things were happening within the city walls. Refugees were going in never to be seen again. The able-bodied were conscripted in the army on the spot. The Alienage had been transformed into a giant forge. No elf was to get out of there, and no human was allowed to get in.

"You say you have been inside?"

"Not myself. My people did." Clarice paused. "Well. Enough of myself and our trouble here. What about you? Where do you hail from?"

"Denerim."

"Have you any news of the Blight? Last I heard the Horde was heading towards Redcliffe, I remember. I wonder how much before it reaches Highever."

"Why, I do have news. Didn't word travel faster than my own two feet?"

"If it did, it went up there." Clarice's stretched hand pointed towards the castle. "Nothing was heard outside, for sure."

"I wonder why, exactly..." Kallian muttered under breath. "Well – then, I will talk for your ears only. Do what you please with the news."

"Pray tell."

"The Horde went to Denerim instead of Redcliffe, as it was expected. It took the city by surprise and they got in. We caught up with them three days after. Denerim was quite damaged already. But, good news is – the Archdemon has been slain. Loghain – teyrn Loghain – gave the final blow and perished in felling it".

"Loghain? You knew the traitor?" the hesitation had caught with Clarice, and she was scowling.

"I fought with Loghain in Denerim, yes." Kallian knew better than to deny the obvious, and she would only lie when necessary. For the time being, some harmless truth could be said – she would worry later with making her stories stick. "I don't know about him being a traitor – I'd rather put my money on Howe – but he was the kind of warrior that inspires respect. That, I felt, and I won't speak ill of him, seeing that I myself witnessed his dying on top of Fort Drakon. More so, since he can do no more harm, as it were."

"Right you are. Instead of rejoicing over the fall of the Archdemon I was scolding you for fighting along a great hero. I apologize, I've forgotten myself." The words spoke of composure, but the ever-frowning brow of the warrior read of anything but. Kallian became slightly cautious.

"No harm done. Maker knows, heroes are hardly what they seem. However, you surely can understand that, though I won't praise him, I cannot but acknowledge the valor of a man to whom I am indebted with my life."

The suspicion in Clarice's eyes lessened but a little.

"That, I can understand."

They arrived soon after. In a clearing no larger than forty paces several tents were crammed, hosting, most likely, about fifty souls. Clarice must have had trusted her people endlessly, to allow the camp to be set like that – there was no clear view, no telling who would enter or emerge from any of the tents, as they were laid chaotically on several rows in depth. One deer and two boars were simmering whole on the spits and vegetables were thrown straight on the embers. Some warriors were out and about, busying themselves with dinner, while others drank ale or played a checkers game. On the whole, it looked more like a merry gathering of people gone to the woods for a fortnight to host a hunting party, rather than a settlement.

Con the mabari found no difficulty to mingle. He was already making puppy-eyes to the next man holding a bowl of stew, which brought smiles both on the Warden's and Clarice's lips.

"Con, here. Sit with me." Kallian scratched the dog's ears, playfully.

"I had a mabari myself. She perished in the attack."

"I'm sorry to hear."

"Well. What is past is past. Come. Let's get you two something to eat."

It was later that evening that the questions started pouring. After a bowl of stew and a dish of rare boar chops with roasted parsnip the second mug of ale went down slow. Wits were dimming; tongues were loosening; some had already gone to rest, and those who still abided by the fire had gathered in one circle, sharing the same stories and recollections of feats of arms. They wanted to know about her, and Kallian did her best to say as little as she could, without leaving the impression she was keeping anything from them. Clarice wanted to know why she had come to Highever, and Kallian said the first thing that came to mind.

"My late husband hailed from the Highever Alienage. I'd come to bring the news to the family, if I could trace them. I doubt that anyone found the time, all this year and a half since he is gone."

"What was his name?" one warrior asked.

"Nelaros. He died defending me."

"We honor you, Nelaros." The voices of a dozen rose, and a dozen cups were held forth.

Kallian felt a little pang of guilt – in the little corner of the heart where she was still a shem-hating elvhan she felt a surge of satisfaction, seeing that she was drinking with this bunch of shems in honor of her dead betrothed, as if he were a hero and a brave man, who'd died for family and kin – which was the honest truth, actually. But it was not a fair thing that she used the memory of Nelaros for her own purpose. Her own salute was a mere whisper.

"Forgive me, Nelaros. You were a brave man."

All of them took a sip in silence. Kallian found she was ready for a third mug of ale. The man that had spoken before broke the silence, loudly.

"I know what we need. We need a bit of music. Shall we call the bard?"

A roar of laughter followed.

"Yes, call the bard. Bring the bard forth!"

One armored woman pushed forth the bard - the prisoner, judging by the irons that cuffed her wrists and ankles. She wore a sack cloth dress, and had a bloodied blindfold on. The view was not one Kallian could take easily. She rose from the log she had sat upon in haste.

"I thank you all for your warm welcome, but I must take my leave, now."

"Kallian?" the blind woman called.

"Hold it right there." Several swords were drawn at once, all pointed to the Warden's chest.

AN: This was not in the original scheme – I found inspiration in What Ithacas Means' "Silence, Water, Struggle, Hope" for bringing Kallian and Cousland together (it's Clarice for me, like in "Silence of the Lambs" - well). Anyway, the seed was planted, but then it grew quite unexpectedly and a bit dark. It served my purpose well, as I was looking for a solution of not making Anora the only and ultimate villain. That being said, I hope you enjoyed the story so far, and I solemnly swear that i'm up to no good.

Thank you for the kind reviews, everybody :)