The elf raced across the encampment, ducking and weaving between soldiers, messengers, servants and priests. His well-patched clothing marked him as one of the many camp workers rather than one of the King's servants. Alistair glanced around him - surely he wasn't the intended target. But the young elf seemed to be looking right at him, and there was no one else anywhere near the the Wardens tent, not even the two recruits, Daveth and Jory.

He'd been enjoying a bit of time to himself, not that he was ever really alone in the bustling encampment. While both men were likeable enough, Ser Knight, in particular, had been getting on his nerves lately. If he had to hear one more time about the beautiful, and very pregnant, wife Jory had left behind in Highever, he was going to knock the man on his ass. What kind of idiot would willingly walk away from that? And then there was Daveth... he should probably track down the man before he got himself into trouble again.

As the elf neared, Alistair recognized him as the one of the runners that delivered messages coming into camp by bird. What was his name? Talon… or was it Taryn? Yes, that was it. Maker's breath, but he was terrible with names.

Setting aside the blade he was sharpening, Alistair rose to his feet as the elf skidded to a halt in front of him. His gaze shifted from the sword to a spot near the center of Alistair's chest. Were all elves this uncomfortable around humans? Not that he'd had a chance to talk with many before coming to Ostagar - mostly servants and Circle mages, and they weren't very chatty. And then there was Tamarel, the only elven Grey Warden in Ferelden until he'd been recalled to Weisshaupt a little over a month ago. Much to his surprise, Alistair had developed a fast friendship with the mercurial man. There was something very comforting about the way he'd managed to stay so upbeat, still cracking jokes, despite the horrors he'd faced in his lifetime. From what little Alistair had seen and heard, especially from Tamarel, was it any wonder the elves were so skittish?

Alistair offered the younger man a friendly smile, "Hello there… Taryn, isn't it? How are you? What can I do for you today?"

Taryn's eyes widened in bewilderment, his mouth opening and closing as if he'd completely lost his train of thought. "Ummm… yes serrah, that's my name. And I'm… fine?" He glanced around him nervously and cleared his throat, the well-rehearsed speech pouring forth as he retrieved a rolled parchment from his pack. "I was sent with a message for you. It just came in by bird, serrah."

"Thank you, Taryn." Alistair gave the elf a small bow as he took the offered scroll. "And please – just call me Alistair."

The elf raised an eyebrow, wary eyes searching Alistair's face. "As you say, ser… Alistair." He shook his head again, spinning on his heel and shooting one last incredulous look over his shoulder before sprinting toward the king's kennels.

Alistair took a moment to watch Taryn work his way through the camp. As quick and sure-footed as most of his kind seemed to be, it was surprising that no one had ever considered enlisting them into the army as scouts. It wasn't his place to judge, but it seemed a wasted opportunity.

His gaze flitted over the camp. There were nearly half as many elves as human soldiers in the encampment, and for the most part, they were overlooked. And when someone did take notice, it wasn't as if they were treated with kindness. The only camp inhabitants treated worse than the elves were the mages. Alistair took a moment to silently thank the Maker for not being born either an elf or a mage - as lousy as his life had been sometimes, it could have been so much worse.

Sinking back to the log with a sigh, Alistair smoothed the rolled parchment against his thigh. A surge of excitement coursed through him as he recognized the sprawling penmanship, his eyes devouring Duncan's words.

Alistair,

I was sorry to hear about Kalvin. I know you'll ignore my advice on this, but don't take his death as a failing on your part. Several of us, including Evan, knew the lad had problems sensing darkspawn. Perhaps he shouldn't have been sent with the patrol, but it's our duty as Wardens to fight darkspawn, no matter our handicaps or the cost. We can only hope to take as many of them with us as possible when our time comes. Kalvin died fighting the good fight, and he'll be remembered as an honored member of our order.

Thank you for sending Evan's report. It's concerning that darkspawn tactics have shifted. My guess is that generals have now joined the fray, which means the main battle is coming sooner rather than later. I agree with Evan that our numbers are too few to spare a Warden for every company sent into the Wilds. But let him know that I'd like a pair of Wardens to accompany select, strategic patrols. We can use the soldiers as reinforcements as we try to learn something of the darkspawn movements. I do want to make it clear that our first priority is maintaining sufficient numbers to defeat this Blight. Only Wardens can destroy the archdemon, and there are compelling reasons to have as many Wardens as possible when we face it.

I know that you'd rather be fighting darkspawn with the others, but it's your duty as the junior member of the order to look after the recruits until the Joining. Not very exciting, I know, but still an important task. Not to worry, you'll be out in the Wilds with us before long.

I'm not surprised that Daveth continues to find trouble. Please let King Cailan know that I'd like him to intervene on my behalf should Daveth be arrested again before I return – there are too few of us to allow one to be executed for thievery. Inform Daveth that the king and I have agreed that he'll be punished in whatever manner the crown sees fit. Daveth doesn't need to know he's in not in any real danger, and I'll speak to him on my return. I can't have the lad dragging the Grey Wardens' name down because he's not skilled enough to avoid getting caught.

I'm leaving Denerim today to return to Ostagar and should arrive in no more than a fortnight. I found another recruit in Denerim, and she'll be returning with me. Zoya is an elf of exceptional skill and will be a great asset to the Wardens. Perhaps you recall me mentioning her? You may have been too young to remember, but you met her mother, Adaia Tabris, before Eamon sent you to the monastery.

I think it's important for you to know that Zoya is not only an extraordinary fighter but also a mage. I know this may be difficult for you, given your past Templar training, but I expect you to treat her with care. I'm sure you can set aside any ridiculous Chantry notions about mages and focus instead on your duty - I expect you to keep Zoya safe until she undergoes the Joining.

Alistair looked at the date on the letter – if Duncan's estimate was correct, he'd be back in Ostagar in only two days. The thought filled him with both happiness and dread. He reread the letter, his eyes stumbling over one word – mage. If this Zoya was coming from Denerim, that meant the Alienage, and that meant she was an apostate. A band tightened around his chest as another word popped into his head, this time in the Revered Mother's voice – maleficar.

He ran hands suddenly slick with sweat through his hair and loosed a breath through pursed lips. Keep her safe? But who's going to keep me safe? An image popped into his head of a shadowy figure, eyes glowing red beneath a black hood as she zapped him with a spell that turned him into a frog before roasting him in demon-fueled fire. Alistair loosed a nervous chuckle. Duncan wouldn't recruit someone into the Wardens that he didn't find worthy – although Daveth certainly tested that assumption at times. Searching his memories, he tried to recall this Adaia and any mentions of someone named Zoya, but he came up empty.

The garish sparkle from the sun reflecting off golden armor caught his eye. Andraste's flaming sword... King Cailan was headed in his direction with a handful of guards. What could he possibly want? Maybe the man would stroll right on by - not that he'd ever been that lucky. Alistair hastily rolled the parchment and shoved it into his pack before rising to his feet.

The king drew to a halt, lifting his chin so he could stare down his nose at Alistair. Cailan had never quite accepted that he was now of equal height, but then Alistair did find he stood a bit taller when the king was around. His voice was a bit too strident when he spoke. "Ho there, Junior Warden. I just received word that a letter from Duncan has arrived. Is there a reason I was forced to chase halfway across camp to learn what news it contains?"

As if I would deprive you of this delightful game, Cailan. For the life of him, Alistair couldn't understand why the man hadn't just sent for him. But then the king did seem to enjoy trying to make him uncomfortable, not that he was very good at playing along. Alistair regarded Cailan with an impassive expression as he crossed his arms and bowed. "I was just coming to speak with you, Your Majesty."

King Cailan regarded him with disdain, blue eyes icy. "You seemed to be in no hurry to meet with me, Warden. What news from your Commander?"

Taking a deep breath, Alistair tried to not let the king's tone rile him. He'd long suspected that Cailan envied his recruitment into the Wardens. On the other hand, Alistair wouldn't take even a dragon's hoard of gold to trade places with the king. "I apologize, Your Majesty. I've only just received the letter. Duncan is on his way back to Ostagar, and he has a new recruit with him. They should be here within the next two days. Evan will probably want to speak to you about strategy once I report to him."

"It's about time. Duncan has been gone far too long. I was beginning to think we were going to fight this battle without him." The king stroked his chin. "A new recruit you say? Just the one? What can you tell me about him?"

Again, Alistair fought to keep his tone neutral. There was probably no reason for the king to know everything about Duncan's new recruit. "Only that she is an elf from the Denerim Alienage, and that Duncan thinks she'll be an excellent addition to the Wardens. He seemed quite impressed with her fighting skills…"

The king's eyes widened with surprise. "An elven woman? I don't recall ever seeing any elves or women among the Wardens. Well, that should provide you with some entertainment at least." The king's face lit up with interest as he chuckled, "She must be something special to have caught Duncan's eye and delayed his return. Although I recall the Commander having a weakness for elven women. But then, don't we all. I look forward to meeting this new recruit."

Cailan had once again found a way to get him to bristle - heat rose in Alistair's cheeks. How dare Cailan speak that way about Duncan! And to suggest that this new recruit was nothing more than a toy to be played with - despite having never met this elf, Alistair suddenly felt the need to defend her. His lips twitched into a snarl, his voice a low growl, "If you think, Your Majesty, that I…"

The captain of the King's Guard strode up, stopping Alistair from saying something he was sure he'd regret. "I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesty, but we've a problem with one of the Grey Wardens. I've caught him stealing again."

Alistair took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead with a weary hand. "The recruit, Daveth?" He paused for the captain's nod before turning to face the king. "Your Majesty, Duncan requested in his letter that you intervene on his behalf in this." He continued to speak through the king's frown, the words rushing out. "We need all the Wardens we have for the coming battle. He's not asking that Daveth not be punished, just that it doesn't keep him from his Warden duties. Maybe the stocks or locked up someplace less public for a couple days? Duncan wants to impress a lesson on him without impacting the Grey Wardens' reputation."

"Very well, Warden." Cailan sighed impatiently. "I agree with the Commander– my father had a hard time convincing the other nobles that it was a good idea to allow the Wardens back into Ferelden, especially after that business in the Deep Roads. I'll agree to a couple days in confinement. But I expect you to keep better control of your recruit. And I'll expect to see Evan shortly to discuss strategy." He shifted his attention back to the guard captain. "Take the Warden recruit to the Tower of Ishal and have him locked in one of the barracks. I'll leave you men to it. I've far more important business to attend to." He waved a dismissive hand.

Alistair bowed deeply to the king, not moving until the man turned his back and strode away with his guards. When the captain headed toward the stocks, Alistair followed.

Daveth peered up at Alistair and the guard captain from his awkward position, his neck and wrists stuck in the openings of the hinged boards as the guards worked to free him. "I knew you wouldn't let me rot here, Alistair. Thanks, mate! You're a gooder - sorting out this mess and getting me set free."

"Well, not exactly. You're going to be confined to a room in the Tower of Ishal." Alistair gestured for the scruffy man to accompany him and the guards. He spoke in a hushed tone, "What in the Maker's name did you think you were you doing, Daveth? You swore that you wouldn't get into any more trouble."

"I wasn't exactly looking for it - it just found me." Daveth dropped his voice to little more than a whisper, giving the captain a wary look. "You see, there was this woman – tall, blonde, curvy in all the right places. I thought she might be looking for a bit of fun - I'm sure you know what I mean. But she turned me down flat. I didn't know she was married, and I'd no idea she was the captain's wife!"

Alistair rubbed at his temples. It was no surprise that there was a woman somehow involved in this - Daveth was an unrepentant lecher. "I just don't understand how you keep finding your way into these messes. Besides, the captain said you were caught stealing, not womanizing."

"Well, I may have lifted her coin purse when she shot me down. I figured it was only fair not to be left empty handed." They paused outside the gates to the tower. "I suppose this won't be as bad as the stocks. How long do I have to stay here?"

"Until Duncan returns and he and the king decide what to do with you." Alistair crossed his arms, frowning at the rogue. "Although he did let the king know that the punishment was up to him, and I'm sure you remember what they do to thieves in Denerim. You can't keep getting into trouble like this, Daveth. It doesn't look good for the Wardens."

"Yeah, yeah – I know. We're warriors without equal, a noble order, and heroes out to stop the Blight. I've heard the speech already." Daveth rolled his eyes, "But haven't you ever just wanted to lose yourself in swaying hips, soft breasts and a womanly smile? What good is being a hero if you never get a comely reward?"

Alistair could only shake his head. "It's a good thing there are no shapely, blonde darkspawn or you'd be a danger to yourself and the rest of us."

The rogue laughed. "Blonde, brunette, redhead, bald… tall, short, fat, thin... I'm not so picky."

"You won't be singing that tune after you encounter one of the creatures." Alistair regarded Daveth with a raised eyebrow. The man only offered a cheeky wink. … But then again, perhaps it wouldn't make a lick of difference, Maker help them all. He chuckled as he watched the guards lead Daveth through the gate. Maybe Duncan would be able to talk some sense into the recruit when he got back. He wished Daveth could take a lesson from Jory, at least in regards to focusing on duty and not being distracted by every pretty girl he saw.

Hopefully this new recruit, Zoya, would be less trouble - assuming she didn't turn him into something slimy, of course.

~oOo~

Zoya chased elusive shadows in her dreams. A part of her knew it was a wasted effort, that no matter how brightly her light shined, there would always be some small bit of darkness that stayed hidden, spreading like spilled ink when her diligence waned. But an obsessive need gnawed in her gut, the relentless optimism that she could beat this foe driving her on. But even as she seemed to be catching up to her quarry, the distance stretched between them again.

Something tickled against her cheek, like gossamer webbing that clung to her skin and wrapped in her hair. In a moment of panic, her feet refused to move, and her hands flew to her face to brush whatever it was away. Fear thudded in her chest as the dark reflection off beady black eyes shone from web-covered hidey holes.

No! Zoya clenched her teeth, some small corner of her mind realizing she was dreaming. Not going to happen! I won't be dragged into another nightmare battle with giant spiders! She fought against her lethargy, but her eyelids were too heavy to open, the Fade like a shackle around her ankles. Closing her dream eyes to block out the cobwebby shadows, she instead tried to focus on the very real blanket under her cheek and clenched in her fingers. It smelled of lingering herbs - the sweet scent of elfroot, tangy bite of foxite, and floral undertones of heatherite tickling her nose and reminding her of the pillow from Anders' pack. Warmth filtered through the comfy covering, and a soft gasp escaped her lips as she felt something, or someone, shift beneath it. Suddenly aware of the slow breathing and heartbeat under her ear, her memories churned as she fought to remember how she could have ended up sleeping with her head on someone's chest. Perhaps the Fade wasn't ready to release her yet, and she was spiraling into another blighted dream about Anders.

She peeled open bleary eyes, letting them slide unfocused over her surroundings. This wasn't the Fade; she'd spent enough time there to know. For a moment, her mind spun in confusion, unsure of where she was. The rounded walls wrapped around her like the inside of a wooden egg, dappled morning light glowing through circular portals.

Lifting her head from the bunk and its occupant, her gaze locked with grey eyes, turbulent as stormclouds. A confused frown twisted the Dalish's face, "Who are you? Where is Tamlen?"

Shoving away from the bed in surprise, her shoulder blades slammed against the back of the chair she was sitting in. It crashed into the narrow table and bench nearby, the neglected dinner laid there threatening to spill to the floor. The events from the last day and night stampeded through her mind. She'd fallen asleep in a chair at Theron's bedside, apparently with her head pillowed on his chest. A wry grin tugged at her lips - well, this was certainly an awkward position to find herself in.

Taking a deep breath, she attempted to compose herself but the wildness behind those steely eyes was unsettling. The words tumbled from her, "Umm… I'm Zoya. Duncan and I found you in the ruins and brought you back to your clan. You were badly wounded, but your Keeper and I healed you. There was no sign of anyone else in the tunnels -"

"So it was not a dream?" The elf's face crumpled, "He really is gone… Tamlen… ma sa'lath…" Tears streamed unchecked, cutting shimmering trails over the graceful whorls accenting his handsome features.

Zoya's heart ached for the grieving elf as she reached out to grasp his hand, "Don't lose hope, Theron! The Keeper sent hunters out to look for Tamlen - they might find him. And Duncan and I will return to the ruins today to search for him. We'll do whatever we can…"

"You do not understand - it was my fault! And the hunters will never find him." The words spilled from him between wracking sobs, "I should never have suggested we search the ruins. I should have dragged him out of the tunnels after the first sign of trouble. I should never have let him go near that mirror."

"Mirror?" Zoya shook her head in confusion. She'd seen nothing like a mirror in the ruins.

Theron nodded glumly as he struggled to get his breathing back under control, "Tamlen said it was just an old artifact, that it had likely been sitting there for hundreds of years without causing any trouble, so how dangerous could it be. He was sure the Keeper would want to know about the ruins and anything else we found there." Theron's voice trembled as he spoke, his eyes widening, "It felt – the whole place felt – strange. And then there were the giant spiders and the skeletons… the dead rose from the earth… they attacked us…" The elf's voice cracked, "There was a statue of Falon'Din... He is a guide – a friend of the dead. It should not have been there, in a place not of our people. Why would Falon'Din be in such a place, one that felt so evil?"

Zoya kept silent vigil, her hands gripping his icy fingers as she waited for the rest of the story. She'd borne witness to the aftermath of their fight through the ruins, and she shuddered at the memory of the evil that crept over her in that place.

The Dalish's face paled, and he swallowed convulsively before continuing his tale. "The mirror was in a chamber nearby, on a platform, flanked on each side by statues of both a human and elven warrior. Tamlen said he saw something moving in the mirror, and when he touched it, the surface rippled like water and he was… he was pulled through." He stared down at their joined hands, his fingers tightening on hers as grief contorted his face. "I tried to keep hold of him, but something wrenched him away. I tried to follow... I just wanted to go after him. But there was a creature, some kind of monstrous bear – it dragged me back into the tunnels. My arrows had no effect – nothing would stop it."

Tears welled in Zoya's eyes, her throat tightening. "I'm so sorry, Theron. If I'd known… I wouldn't have left… I promise you, we'll look for him."

The elf's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "There is no need for promises. I am going with you when you return to the ruins."

Andraste's flaming ass! After everything that had happened, the elf wanted to go back to the ruins? He'd barely survived his first visit to the cursed place, and that was only with considerable intervention from the Keeper and herself. Zoya shook her head, "I don't think it's a good idea. You almost didn't make it out of there the last time, and you need to rest-"

Theron yanked his hand free, "Would you be able to rest if the one you loved was in danger, was lost and hurt and alone?" Sliding from the bunk, he grabbed the replacement armor piled on the bench.

"No, I wouldn't." When he framed his argument that way, Zoya realized she had no right to keep him away. How many times had she thrown herself into bad situations to help someone she cared about? "I see your point."

Zoya leaned back in her chair, chewing her lip as she watched the elf strap into the armor. Thanks to the Keeper's efforts, his physical injuries were completely healed, and not even a scar or blemish remained. Her gaze traveled over the inked lines on his face, following them down his lean torso. She was surprised that the graceful designs were replicated on the boiled leather armor. They looked familiar - she suddenly realized they were like those on her own armor, the very armor that once belonged to her mother. Perhaps she'd have an opportunity later to ask Theron or the Keeper about the meaning behind the patterns. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the distraught elf's face. "I doubt the Keeper would allow you to come with, though."

His face twisted into a fierce glare as he snatched up a bow, the ancient wood creaking under his grip. "Then we will not give her the option to refuse." He spun on his heel and stalked out of the aravel, Zoya following silently in his wake.

The dark-haired elf from the previous night, the Keeper's First, was approaching the aravel, her steps growing more tentative as she spotted Theron and Zoya coming down the ramp. Merrill's voice was barely more than a whisper when she spoke, her eyes focused on the ground. "Umm… Theron… how are you feeling? Better I hope? I was bringing you something to eat…"

Theron took the offered food with a nod, "I will survive. Tamlen is the one we should be worried about." He broke off a length of bread and chunk of cheese, handing them to Zoya with little more than a glance. "Where is the Keeper? And why is the clan getting ready to travel?"

Zoya glanced around her. Colorful sails were unfurling from the dozen landships scattered around the camp, fluttering like large wings in the soft breeze. Nearly every elf hustled about, stowing possessions in crates and satchels and dragging them up the ramps into their soon-to-be mobile homes. But where was Duncan? It was well past breakfast, and the Warden tended to be an early riser. Besides, all of the landships were bustling with activity. He wouldn't have returned to the ruins without her, would he?

"She is with the Grey Warden." The young elf grew flustered at the confusion on Theron's face. "Duncan? The shem who carried you back here?" She shook her head, "They are trying to convince the villagers to let us stay a bit longer, at least until we find Tamlen. But the Keeper has asked that we get the camp ready to move."

Theron spun toward Zoya, catching her mid-bite. "How soon can you be ready to go back to the ruins?"

Zoya swallowed hastily. "You aren't suggesting we go without Duncan? Without speaking to the Keeper? Are you?"

"We do not have time to wait." Theron scowled at the elven women in turn. "And I am not leaving without Tamlen."

As much as she wanted to rush off to search for the missing elf, the nervous twisting in her gut told her to be cautious. "And I'm not going to the ruins without Duncan. He sensed darkspawn in those tunnels, and they're not even the worse things there. It would be suicide to go back without him." Zoya stepped toward Theron, placing both hands on his shoulders. "I promised I would help you find Tamlen, and I intend to keep that promise. I'm sure Duncan will be back soon."

"He did tell me to tell you to be ready to head out before midday." Merrill chirped.

She resisted the urge to throttle the girl – why hadn't she shared that bit of information earlier? Zoya shot a quick glare at the elf before turning back to Theron with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "See! You just need to be patient a little longer."

He pulled free from her grasp, a frown contorting his face. "Fine. I will gather my things and meet you back here shortly." He strode away, offering little more than a terse nod to several well-wishers as he passed.

"Charming fellow." Zoya turned to Merrill, one corner of her mouth quirking upward.

"Umm… Maybe he did not tell you, but Theron is with Tamlen." Merrill looked uncomfortable as she tried to avoid Zoya's gaze.

"What?" Zoya shook her head in confusion. Why would Merrill feel the need to tell her that? Theron's feelings for Tamlen were abundantly clear. Oh Maker, could Merrill be thinking that she was interested in Theron? Sure, he was attractive enough, but he was obviously in love with someone already. Besides, the last thing she needed was to become infatuated with another damaged man, and a surly Dalish at that. She raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired elf, "That was sarcasm, Merrill. I'm sure the Dalish are familiar with the concept?"

It was almost uncomfortable to watch the young elf awkwardly squirm. Maybe she was feeble-minded, which would be surprising since she was the Keeper's First. Zoya fidgeted, regretting her hasty words. Perhaps a different approach would set the girl at ease. "So is there anything you think I need to see in the camp, anyone I should talk to, while I wait for Duncan to return? Or maybe you could show me around? I've heard so much about the Dalish, and it seems a shame not to take this opportunity to learn more about you."

Merrill twisted her fingers, continuing to avoid Zoya's eyes. "Umm… No not really. I… umm… really should get back to… things."

Zoya watched as the elf scurried away. What an odd girl. She was probably about the same age as Shianni, but they were worlds apart in personality. Her cousin was many things, but socially inept and featherbrained were not among them. How she wished Shianni and Soris were here with her now, but it was probably for the best they were back in the Alienage. Shianni would likely have bottled the first Dalish to treat her with the smug superiority that Zoya had encountered, and Soris… Well, she doubted the Dalish women would have been charmed by his attempts at wooing.

But if her cousins were here, she'd at least be entertained while she waited. Patience had never been one of her strengths, and now she had a couple of hours to kill before Duncan's return. Guilt and anticipation swirled in her head, any attempts to still them only causing her discomfort to grow. Plopping down on a nearby log, she dug into her pack for a writing lead and parchment. Tipping her head back to feel the sun full on her face, she considered where to start before bending to compose a letter to her cousins.

The sound of a familiar voice broke her from her task. It couldn't be… Zoya jumped onto the log, her letter discarded, eyes scanning for the voice's source. On the far side of the camp, she spotted him – a skinny runt with short blond hair and overly large ears. She leapt from her perch, loping toward the young elf as a smile spread across her face. "Pol?"

He turned with a start, "Zoya?" Rushing forward, he threw his slender arms around her waist, his pointy chin digging into her collarbone. "What are you doing here? Are Shianni and Soris with you?"

"No, I'm traveling with a Grey Warden to Ostagar. But we got sidetracked by darkspawn and a wounded Dalish in the forest, so here I am." She pulled away, offering her young friend a lopsided grin. "How are you doing? How did you end up here? It's so good to see you!" In the excitement of seeing a friendly face, words tumbled from her mouth with hardly a breath's pause, "Taeodor said you'd run away to find the Dalish. He's been so worried about you. I was just writing a letter to Shianni and Soris – I could pass on a message if you'd like."

Zoya could feel the steady weight of a disapproving glare at her back. Pulling free from Pol, she turned to his companion, offering her hand and a friendly smile. "Hello, I'm Zoya."

Pol gave the Dalish a nervous glance, "Zoya, this is Junar. Zoya is an old friend of mine from the Alienage."

The other elf gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement, ignoring her offered hand. Appraising eyes skimmed over her, pausing to rest on her visible weapons.

The tense silence was broken when Pol cleared his throat. "If you're already planning a letter to the Alienage, it would be great if you could just let Taeodor know that I'm doing fine, Zoya. And please tell Shianni that I said hello." A flush rose in Pol's cheeks at the mention of her cousin's name. "I guess I've been here for a month or so. I hitched a ride with a caravan and made it as far as a nearby human village, and when they mentioned that a Dalish camp was close, I took a chance." His fingers tightened on the bow in his hand, "I wasn't sure if I'd ever adjust, but I think I'm starting to get the hang of living here."

Junar rolled his eyes, "It is worse than trying to teach a toddler. Do they teach you flat ears anything in the Alienage? You have no useful skills, no knowledge of our history or traditions."

Zoya forced a smile to stay on her lips, hoping it looked less like baring her teeth than it felt. She was determined to find a way to get along with the Dalish. But if she heard one more snide comment about her Alienage upbringing - even now, it was difficult to stop herself from knocking Junar on his pompous ass. Wasn't it bad enough the humans treated them this way - did they have to mistreat each other as well? Alienage or Dales, they were all elves, weren't they? She took a deep breath, "That's a beautiful bow. What do the symbols mean?"

"Those are the symbols of Andruil, the goddess of the hunt. As I said – you flat ears are like children… you know nothing." The elf's voice bordered on arrogance.

Her teeth ground together as her fists clenched. A little voice that sounded a lot like Shianni's popped into her head - He'd deserve it if you knocked him flat! Instead she added extra charm to the smile brought on by picturing Junar turned into a pointy-eared pillar of ice. Maybe this was her chance to kill two birds with one stone - entertain herself during the wait for Duncan, and show the Dalish that Alienage elves were not without skills. "How do you feel about a wager? Perhaps a contest of archery skills?"

Pol offered a shy smile, "You might not want to take her up on that bet – she's the best archer in the Alienage."

Junar snorted, "That means less than nothing. I look forward to showing you just how little."

Offering a wink to Pol, Zoya retrieved the bow from her back. "Very well, Junar. If I win, I get your bow, and if you win…"

"I doubt you have anything I'd want." His lip curled in disdain as his eyes traveled over her. "And Master Ilen's weapons are finer than anything you possess."

Pol's gaze flitted towards Zoya, trying to hold back a smile, before he turned his attention back to his companion. "How about this – Junar, if you win, I'll do whatever you ask for a fortnight."

Junar's eyes brightened with interest, "You are that confident in this elf's skill with a bow that you would offer to do anything I ask of you if she loses?"

As Pol nodded his agreement, Zoya gave the young elf's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Fine. We will keep the rules simple so you can follow them." His eyes scanned the trees, settling on a large oak tree near the edge of the camp. "The wreath on yonder tree is our target. Each time you successfully hit the empty space in the center, you must take another ten paces back. The first one to miss the wreath's center loses the wager. As the challenger, you will have first shot." Junar drew a line in the dirt with his foot and gestured for Zoya to step up and begin.

"Agreed." Zoya planted a foot behind the line, at least a hundred paces from the target. The wreath was not large, the empty space at its center no bigger than an elf's head. A slight breeze caressed the back of her neck, and she smiled as the fletching of her arrow tickled her cheek. The arrow sped away with her exhale, biting into the dense wood with a satisfying thunk. Turning to Junar with a slight incline of her head, she gestured that it was his turn before taking her ten paces away from the line. She hoped the cocky elf offered a challenge, although she had her doubts if the panic that flashed across his face as he stepped up to take his shot was any indication.

A small crowd gathered as their contest continued, trinkets and coins exchanging hands as each elf made their shot. Zoya noticed the sheen of sweat glistening on her opponent's face at two hundred paces, and by two hundred-fifty, he was starting to look a bit green. Junar's hands were visibly shaking when they reached three hundred paces, and he paused to wipe them on his leather armor before nocking his arrow.

A chorus of voices raised, some in triumph and others in dismay when his arrow lodged in the wreath itself. Junar loosed a groan, hands knotting in his hair as he ducked his head. Offering her a wan look, not quite getting to a smile, he handed over the bow. "I guess being the best archer in the Alienage does mean something."

Zoya stifled her laughter as she ran an appraising hand over the Dalish bow. "Truth be told, I'm one of only a handful of elves from my Alienage that have ever touched a bow. And I'm afraid the title of best archer really belongs to my cousin, Soris." It may have sounded cheekier than necessary, but her need to make her point overpowered any desire for diplomacy. With luck, it was a lesson the Dalish wouldn't soon forget.

She raised her new bow, the flexible wood silently bending as she nocked an arrow and tested its pull. Never had she felt its like – the string sang as she released the arrow, the tip finding the center of the wreath. "So Pol…," she called out to her old friend, "Care to give me a tour of the camp?"

The young elf trotted over, handing her the arrows. "I'd be happy to." She slid them into her quiver and linked her arm through his as they moved away from the small crowd of muttering hunters.

"You, girl – I would speak with you." An authoritative voice called out as Zoya and Pol set off toward the center of the camp.

Zoya's searching eyes rested on an elder elf standing apart from the rest. Anxiety churned in her stomach, her hastily eaten breakfast sitting like a rock. Given the way many of the Dalish had treated her so far, she wasn't sure what to expect.

Pol gave Zoya's arm a reassuring squeeze, steering her toward the elder. "Master Ilen, this is Zoya Tabris, a friend of mine from the Alienage." He turned toward her, "Master Ilen is the clan's craftmaster."

"That is my father's bow you have strapped to your back, girl." The elf regarded her with iron eyes, his expression unreadable.

"I'm sorry, ser. Junar never said…" Guilt twisted in Zoya's gut. She'd only meant to deprive that haughty elf of his prized possession, not con him out of a family heirloom. Zoya's hands were uncharacteristically clumsy in her rush to return the bow.

But to her surprise, Master Ilen only ran a callused hand over the carved wood before returning the graceful weapon. "That which belongs to one belongs to all. I might have given this bow to Adaia had she not been taken from us. She had a fair bit of skill, and I see she taught you well." His lined face softened as he sank into memory. "My father crafted this bow and used it to kill many Clayne warriors. It is only fitting that you use it to hunt and kill darkspawn."

"You knew my mother?" Zoya knew she shouldn't be surprised – this elf was old enough to have been part of the clan during her mother's time with them. Her heart ached as she was reminded that her mother, especially the young elf she was before Zoya was born, was apparently little more than a stranger to her.

"I knew her well. She and Alarith were part of my household while they were with the clan. I was sorry to hear of her passing." Sadness darkened his eyes. "I see you carry her daggers."

Zoya nodded, "Yes, ser. " Pulling the blades free, she handed them to the craftsman.

He ran reverent hands over the daggers, the words leaving his mouth as soft as a sigh. "The Fangs of Fen'Harel."

Zoya's eyes widened. "You know their name?"

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, the inked lines on his cheeks shifting. "Of course, da'len. Every elf knows the story of the ancient blades used by Garahel to end the last Blight."

"Wait..." Zoya's head spun. "What story?"

"How can you not know the tale? You carry the daggers! Surely your mother told you?" He pursed his lips, letting out a low whistle. "They were forged in a time before our tales, the craftsmanship finer than any Master now could create. Some think Fen'Harel may have plucked them from his own mouth, crafting them for an elven lover."

Zoya shook her head, an emptiness growing in her gut. Maker's ass, more cursed secrets! How many more would be revealed before the day was over?

The elf clasped her arm, "Well then, I shall tell you the tale, unless the Grey Warden would rather tell it." His gaze shifted to look over Zoya's shoulder.

"I'm sure you're far better suited to share the story, Master Ilen." She flinched as Duncan's deep voice sounded behind her. How had he managed to sneak up on her again?

The elf inclined his silver-haired head toward the Grey Warden, "I am no storyteller – the Hahren is much more skilled at that task. Much of the tale has been lost to the ages, but we do know the Fangs of Fen'Harel were wielded against the humans in the battles to save the Dales. They were passed down through the generations until they found their way into Garahel's hands. It was he who added the runes, making the blades more deadly to darkspawn. They continued to be passed down, parent to child, until Adaia and now you." He handed the blades back to Zoya.

"Garahel..." The name left Zoya's lips in a heavy sigh. Adaia had told her stories of Garahel, but she'd never said anything about being a descendant of the elven hero or his connection to her daggers. Zoya gave the master craftsman and the Warden an incredulous look. "You're telling me that the Warden who united Thedas during the Fourth Blight and struck the killing blow against the archdemon, Andoral, at the Battle of Ayesleigh is my ancestor? That Garahel?"

Duncan nodded, "The very one. The story of those daggers and your ancestral line, tracing back to Garahel and beyond, was one of Adaia's most precious possessions, one of her greatest sources of pride. It was what spurred her escape from Tevinter, what prompted her to seek out conscription into the Grey Wardens, and what may have compelled her to follow me on our misadventures. She intended to tell you the tale when you came of age and she handed off their keeping to you."

Zoya couldn't stop the bitterness from creeping into her voice when she spoke, "And so the mighty line falls, from the great hero of the Fourth Blight to Tevinter slaves to me - a murdering, thieving apostate from the Denerim Alienage. Oh, how proud my great elven ancestor would be. The Dread Wolf does seem to have a sense of humor, doesn't he?" She stared down at the daggers in her hands as if she'd never seen them before, "I suddenly feel very unworthy of these blades."

Duncan gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. "I think it's no coincidence that those daggers found their way into your hands at the start of this Blight – there is no one alive that is better suited to wield them." He gave her a slight shake before releasing her, "Now let's go quench their thirst for darkspawn blood."

A/N - The usual thanks and love to all, especially to Eve Hawke, my lovely beta, and Etaine M., my sweet beta sister...