Author's Note: Surprise! Anyways, cookies to whoever realizes what tribe Fenarel belongs to. Hope you enjoy, and we are moving ever closer down the road, even with unexpected roadbumps like this. Can't have ANGST ANGST ANGST all the time. As always, please leave a tip for your humble writer in the form of a REVIEW! and I really do hope everyone is enjoying the story.

Chapter 12

It had been more than twelve years since she stepped foot on this land, yet nothing seemed to have changed. Leliana had mentioned that strange stories had circulated around this spot; she had even been there a few times herself. The Templars had tried to exorcise the place, trying to dispel the uneasy essence that surrounded the abandoned hut. It was frozen in time, a portrait of its former owners. Sylrien was sure that she could still see footprints from the few times she had made her way here. The entire place unnerved her. She looked to Alistair, who nodded. No Darkspawn - small favor, that. The group had spread out evenly, trudging through the swamp. Each step was a struggle to pull free of the sucking embrace of the sludge underfoot. There were still dangers here.

The building was sturdy. She tried to the doorknob - it was not locked. Zevran stood flat against the wall as Sylrien nudged the door open, Leliana with her bow raised and arrow drawn behind Sylrien should something be there. Shayle and Alistair stood to either side of the pair of women, weapons ready. The door opened slowly, a slight squeal accompanying the rusty hinges. It was the same sound the door made all those years ago...-but the door only opened a few inches. No-one spoke as Sylrien advanced, administering a swift kick to the wooden panel, sending the door flying open and slamming against the opposite wall. The party quickly filtered in, the two heavily armored members advancing deeper into the second room.

Then they all sheathed their weapons. Nothing was there.

Sylrien stalked to the perimeter - no books, no bits of paper, no furnishings, no dead ashes in the fireplace, nothing! There was only a fine layer of dust on the floor. She could hear the witch's laughter echo in her ears. She looked up at her companions: Zevran leaning against the door frame, Alistair facing the fireplace, Leliana puzzled and already outside. And then there was Shayle. She looked around with her blue eyes, rubbed her chin and then swung her over-sized hammer over her shoulder. "Hmmpf. Guessed this might have happened. Swamp Witch must be in Orlais then. No use waiting, unless it has a better idea?" The sensible attitude of the Dwarf caused Sylrien to grin, following Shayle out the door. At least she had a plan.

But that plan didn't include nearly walking into an arrow. As they made their way out of the door, arrows suddenly planted themselves at their feet. As the familiar hiss of unsheathed swords filled the air, Shayle and Sylrien moved back-to-back as the others still inside the hut stepped forward to see what was going on. Shayle shot a hand out to block the others from leaving. "It's Majesty would do better to stay indoors at the moment. The Warden and I shall handle this...."

"Show yourselves!" Sylrien yelled. This was not a Darkspawn attack - Alistair would have alerted them, and rarely did the foul creatures display much in the way of cunning. There was movement in the underbrush, rustling of leaves. Night was falling fast and her eyes flitted about their surroundings, wondering if there was any way to exploit...any way to...

There was a statue of a dog, or was it a wolf? Facing away from the hut. Instantly Sylrien dropped her swords, holding her hands up in the air. "Shayle! The rest of you! Disarm. Drop your weapons now!"

She looked back out to the dense foliage that obscured their attackes. Please, please let her be right. Again she shouted out to the forest:

"Abelas! Sheuhn shah tauthau toetoi thuet. Sheuhn andaran atish'an. Sheuhn durgen'len, shem'len, elvhen. Abelas!"

Silence followed, and then a dozen or so figures emerged from the surrounding woods. "Who are you to speak our language? Our scouts saw you crossing the border. We do not permit outsiders into our woods except at the trading posts. What is your business here?"

Sylrien cut a glance at Leliana and Alistair, the former looked as if she had justremembered some important fact, the latter looked down sheepishly at his boots. She frowned before speaking in the direction of the voice. "I am a Grey Warden. I seek information of the witch who used to live here. I-" The voice cut her off again, one of the figures stepped forward and moved his hood back. It was a Dalish elf, with dark green eyes set in what seemed to be a mask inked over the top half of his face. Sylrien bowed her head in deference as he began to speak.

"This place is Setheneran. The Veil is weak here and dark things have been known to prowl these grounds. We will bring you to our settlement, but the durgen'len and the shem'len must go blindfolded. We do not permit their kind to know the trails and roads we use within our lands."

Shayle was stepping forward, she could hear the intake of breath about to precede some comment then heard Alistair begin to move forward to protest , but she raised her hand to silence them both. "We will abide by your rules hahren, lead on."

When they had first encountered the Dalish years ago, she had explained the reason for the group she was taking with her. They were both going, she said, because the Dalish would be kinder to them, when and if they found them. Zevran couldn't shake the feeling there was another reason she had chosen him to come with her. Even he felt it; that boyish fantasy of running off to the Dalish camps was tearing itself from the recesses of his memory to emerge in the forefront of his mind. She was smiling more often than she had been; even in the past few nights her recreational activities with Alistair had been...louder than usual. He didn't have to ask if she had one point entertained the very same idea. It seemed every city Elf at one point in time thought about running away from the human lands to rejoin their wild brethren.

That time had come and gone for him a long while ago - now he was sure he was better off Antivan, rather than elf. Zevran always figured that they would lack the fine whorehouses or...business opportunities that made up his life. Still, she looked so eager, traipsing around the forests; he remembered that he had a good five years or so on her. She wouldn't be as jaded as he was, no matter how many battles she'd been through. Those were human or dwarvenaffairs, and elves didn't fight or deceive each-other...It was a fantasy he wished he still had, sometimes. He despised the very concept of alienages, but he could not help but admit to a certain allure at the thought of a close-knit community comprised solely of your family and friends.

But he didn't expect the Dalish to welcome them with open arms, either. He was right. When the scouting party had approached them, she had blanched at the open hostility. "But...But I'm one of you!" Sylrien said. "No, you are not." was the harsh reply. She was stunned for a few minutes, before the corners of her lips twitched down and her back straightened, "Then I come as a Grey Warden, seeking the Dalish to honor old alliances..."

What followed was proof that there was no fairytale kingdom of elves hidden in the woods. Though he would catch her occasionally staring wistfully at the groups of people huddled around fires, marveled at their landships...It was probably the closest thing to home she had seen in some time.

It was also nice because this was the first time in a long time that she was without her knight. "Shem..." she had said, when they had been discussing who should go, which group of them was needed, "Would alarm them. Wynne is old, and a healer - they would not fear her as much as a heavily armored warrior - we know not how they feel about the dwarves, and who knows how they'd respond to you, Sten." The giant balked at this, Zevran could tell beacuse he always would lean forward slightly whenever he disagreed with something, he figured it was a subconscious attempt at intimidation. "Do what you feel is appropriate."

"And I suppose that human women would frighten them too? That we might steal their menfolk and bewitch them?" Morrigan interjected, ruing the thought of staying behind with Alistair and Leliana. Or just the thought of staying behind while the Warden was out of sight, free from whatever designs she had on her.

Sylrien looked up, raising an eyebrow at the witch's protest. "No. I just think they would find Soris much more approachable. Less intimidating. If the stories are true - I wish I had talked to Alarith..." Her voice trailed off as her mind wandered, before she snapped back to attention. "Being with an animal is good sign, I think. Shows that us city elves aren't totally lost to the shem's ways. Empathy and the like."

She scritched the Mabari hound behind his ears, causing the animal to bark loudly with happiness.

"Isn't that right, Soris? Who could ever think you and your namesake could ever harm anyone? Eh? That's right, boy." The dog rolled around at her feet, then hopped on his hind legs in a begging position.

"That's right! I knew you reminded me of my cousin. And since he's an elf too, that's gotto be providence. They wouldn't hurt an elven Mabari! No they wouldn't!"

So the next morning the four of them set out. It wasn't long before they found the Dalish. Moreso, the Dalish found them.

Now they were different. There were no awkward childhood fantasies here, just the truth of reality. Sylrien looked over her shoulder: Zevran did not seem to mind that they were outnumbered and unarmed - he could have been strolling down a street for the expression he wore. The others were less content, and justifiably so: trudging blindfolded and knee-deep through the sludge was not a pleasant experience. She wanted to say a reassuring word or make some gesture of comfort, but their hooded escort would most likely brook no delay. A clucking noise caught her attention. The leader of the patrol was looking at her, sizing her up.

"That armor. It is is Dalish. And of such make only our most skilled could have fashioned it. How did you come by it?"

She glanced back at her fellows, frowning before looking back to the leader. "It was a gift."

Sylrien doubted very much that the Dalish before her would believe she was the "Hero of Ferelden", the "Savior of the Elvhanen" or whatever other titles she had accrued since her death. She couldn't quite believe some of them herself.

However, it seemed Zevran would have none of this tense back and forth. Before anyone could move, before any of the guards could take action, he had broken the single line they had formed, swinging his arm around Sylrien's shoulders.

"Do you not recognize her, my wild friend? Have you not seen the grand tomb in Denerim, built for this very woman? Why, she is The Tabris! The Hero of Ferelden, the Grey Warden who freed her people and brought back hope to the Elvhanen!"

He squeezed her slightly. She wasn't sure if Zevran was royally brilliant, or stupid. The masked elf took another appraising look at her, before nodding slightly. "She does bear a passing resemblance to the stories. We-" He gestured to another elf, whispering something too soft for Sylrien to hear. The elf, a young woman, nodded and broke into a sprint. It looked like she was gliding over the swamp mud. The leader looked at her again. "The Keeper will know if you speak truly. We have one among our number who knew the Tabris when she was..." Again the elf looked at her. "Alive."

"Wonderful, wonderful. You are a smart man then, and you shall not regret this, I don't think. Just imagine: the very elf who brought Tabris back to her people! You will be known forever in song! Yes, they will sing of...What is your name? I did not catch it."

The elf puffed up a bit with pride, standing a bit straighter in the face of all this praise. "Fenarel. My name is Fenarel."