This chapter was all ready to go weeks ago, then last weekend I did a major re-write and dumped it, at very short notice, on my long-suffering beta reader in what is one of her busiest weeks of the year at work. A huge thank you to WellspringCD for tidying this up for me. I hope you will all think it worth the wait!

Morrigan whirled on Flemeth. "Away! Away with you! I shall have no more of your pestering."

Flemeth looked at her reproachfully. "I am your mother, do you not love me?"

Morrigan almost laughed out loud. The demon's illusion was pathetic, a presentation of what it thought Morrigan's mother should be, rather than what she actually was. "You are as much my mother as my little finger is the Queen of Ferelden. I know you, Fade Sprit. You cannot fool me."

"Are you more clever than your own, dear mother? Surely such pride must be punished?" Flemeth drew her arm back and slapped Morrigan's face hard. "There! That is for not showing respect."

Morrigan staggered under the blow, her cheek stinging. She smiled triumphantly at the demon. "That is more like it, but it is too little, too late, spirit."

She laughed, summoning her power and sent a blaze of lightning at the demon masquerading as Flemeth. As the lightning struck it, the demon's guise failed. Ice followed lightning, then Morrigan summoned a great stone fist that shattered the frozen demon.

Morrigan looked round and spotted a small pedestal. She didn't like the idea of using it; however, there seemed to be no other way out of this corner of the fade. Tentatively she stretched out her hand and touched it. Instantly she was transported to another part of the fade.

It took her some time but eventually she began to have a sense of how this demon's domain worked. She was thrilled to learn several new forms she could shape-shift into, all of which served her well in this part of the fade. Using the pedestals and portals she travelled the fade, utilising her new abilities to defeat several lesser demons. She would have to free her companions to defeat the master demon, though; that it maintained such rich and varying illusions was a testament to its power. Morrigan doubted she could best it alone, even with her new forms.

Morrigan studied the pedestal and touched one of the outer runes. She was surprised to find herself in what appeared to be the Circle Tower. The floor she was on appeared to be deserted. There were several open doors. Morrigan peered through each one cautiously, however she saw no one. There was just one door which was closed. Morrigan gathered her power and flung the door open.

~o~O~o~

Alistair knocked at the door of Senior Warden Aerik's office, wondering why he'd been summoned.

"Enter!"

Alistair pushed the door open and entered the room.

"Ah, Alistair. Come... sit, please."

Alistair sat and patiently waited to find out why he had been summoned.

"You know that several recruits have taken their Joining this morning, yes?"

Alistair nodded.

"We were lucky, most of them survived. One of them is from your native Ferelden."

"Ferelden?" Alistair gaped at Aerik. "You mean he travelled all the way here to join the Grey Wardens?"

Aerik smiled. "Extraordinary, I know." He shrugged. "He said he had come here because he was searching for someone. Anyway, he is here and he has survived his Joining."

"I see," murmured Alistair, who didn't really, but was curious to know more about this mysterious Fereldan.

Aerik leaned back in his chair. "I want you to act as his mentor. I also had it in mind that he could room with you. He will find us very strange initially; I think it will make the transition easier if he has a fellow Fereldan to show him how things are done."

"Of course, ser."

"You will have much in common, I think. He is a former templar and a skilled warrior."

The smile froze on Alistair's face. He really, really hoped it wasn't someone he'd trained with at the monastery. Maker! Please, please don't let it be Makinson.

"I've already arranged for Devan to move his things."

Alistair felt a thrill run through him. He liked Devan; he'd become a good friend in the short time Alistair had been at Weisshaupt, but Alistair was dying to know more about his new roommate. Alistair stood. "Was there anything else, ser?"

Aerik shook his head, dismissing Alistair with a wave of his hand and turning his attention back to the pile of paperwork on his desk.

As soon as Alistair left the room, he was kicking himself for not asking the new Warden's name. He shrugged. It probably wasn't anyone he knew anyway. He made his way carefully back along the maze of corridors to his room; he still got lost occasionally. He smiled to himself; accents and confusing layout aside, he loved it at Weisshaupt. He had been uncertain about coming here once the Blight had been defeated but he'd found the camaraderie, the sense of belonging, that he'd had with the Grey Wardens in Ferelden before Ostagar.

Alistair paused at the door to his room, hearing someone moving about inside. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A tall man was standing at the far side of the room, arranging his armour on the stand that Devan had left empty. As Alistair closed the door behind him, clearing his throat, the man turned.

"Cullen!" Somehow, Cullen was the last person had expected to see.

Cullen smiled. "Alistair. It's good to see you."

"What are you... why... ? Maker's breath!" Alistair had so many questions, he didn't know where to begin.

"They didn't tell you I was here?"

"No. They just said a former templar... from Ferelden." Alistair frowned. "Why a Grey Warden, Cullen? Why here?"

Cullen opened the chest at the foot of his bed, pulling clothes out of the two packs on his bed and stowing them neatly. His fair skin turned pink. "I remembered the way the Wardens fought in the tower. The way you fought. I'd thought that the templars were the finest warriors there were, yet two Grey Wardens succeeded where dozens of templars had failed."

Cullen grabbed the two empty packs and stuffed them under the bed, then stood and faced Alistair.

"After the rebellion, I could barely stand the sight of a mage. There was an... incident. The Grand Cleric released me from my vows so I decided to become a Grey warden. I went to the Warden compound in Denerim and they told me you'd come here, so I decided to come here too."

At the mention of the rebellion in the tower, Alistair felt a sense of disquiet. Something was wrong but before he could try and work it out, Cullen was talking again. He stepped closer to Alistair. "I hope I didn't do the wrong thing," he said softly.

"N-no, not at all." Alistair tried to keep his voice steady. He bit his lip, hesitating for a moment, before plucking up his courage.

"I… er… never thanked you for sticking up for me that time... in the bath house."

"I think I should be the one thanking you," replied Cullen, his lips twitching in amusement.

Alistair frowned. "Thanking me? What for?"

"For giving me the perfect excuse to admire you so openly." Cullen's eyes dropped to Alistair's groin.

"Oh… " Alistair flushed, his mouth suddenly dry. He felt himself harden and moved to sit on his bed, hoping to conceal the telltale bulge he could feel growing in his breeches.

Cullen moved, blocking Alistair's way; Alistair ducked his head, embarrassed and silently cursing his body for giving him away.

"You watched me too, didn't you?" Cullen's voice was low and husky.

"I-I… " stammered Alistair, unable to lie and deny it, but unable to admit it either.

"I know you did," murmured Cullen.

Fearfully, Alistair raised his eyes to the taller man's, looking for the accusation, the disgust; instead, he saw lust. Cullen stepped closer and reached out, cupping the bulge in Alistair's breeches. Alistair went weak at the knees at the jolt of passion that blazed through him. He would have staggered if Cullen's free hand hadn't caught him, pulling him close.

Alistair gazed at Cullen's face, rapt, as the other templar's mouth descended. Soft lips brushed against his mouth and Alistair whimpered with longing, his hips jerking, pressing his aching groin into Cullen's hand. He barely knew what he was doing as his hands came up and cupped Cullen's face; all he knew was he couldn't let that mouth get away from him. Alistair groaned as Cullen's hand moved, then he was drowning in sensation as strong hands grabbed his buttocks, his groin grinding against Cullen's; Cullen's mouth devouring his own, tongue plunging, teeth nibbling.

Alistair almost fainted with shock as the door flew open so violently it bounced off the wall. Twisting in Cullen's arms, he turned to look. A dark-haired woman stood there. She looked vaguely familiar, but Alistair couldn't remember where he knew her from. Alistair was surprised, but relieved, that Cullen hadn't let him go; he wasn't sure he could have stood on his own, his legs trembling with a combination of desire and embarrassment. He looked up at Cullen. There was no shock or fear on Cullen's face, just frustration and anger; his eyes glittered dangerously. He looks just like Fearghal. The thought flitted through Alistair's mind and was gone before he could catch hold of it properly.

The woman smirked at them both. "Well, well, Alistair. 'Twould seem you do appreciate handsome men after all."

"Don't listen to her," snarled Cullen. "This woman is a mage. Worse, she's an apostate! She's dangerous."

Alistair could sense the magic in the woman and she looked like no Circle mage he had ever seen before. She wasn't a Warden.

He shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, pulling away from Cullen. "Just a minute. What's she doing up here?" How does she know my name?

Cullen kept a possessive arm around Alistair's waist. "She must have overcome our brothers. She must die."

Alistair frowned and looked at the woman. "Who are you?"

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes. "Truly, Alistair, I would have thought you disliked me enough to remember me. You ever succeed in convincing me that templars are indeed fools."

"I've told you, I'm not a templar, I'm a Grey Warden," shot back Alistair automatically.

"Indeed. And here you are, in the great Warden fortress in the Anderfels. Yet where is your fellow Warden, Fearghal?"

That name again. Fearghal... A face started to form in Alistair's mind. Dark hair, angry blue eyes, a beard, not unlike Cullen's... He froze as memories came flooding back. The room faded and Alistair was clad in his dowdy splint mail armour. A bolt of lightning arced past Alistair, striking Cullen who yelped and jumped back. 'Cullen' flickered, giving Alistair a glimpse of the demon. Suppressing a shudder, Alistair drew his sword and shield and attacked.

Between the two of them, the demon didn't stand a chance. As the demon disappeared, Alistair looked stunned. "I can't believe it. How did I not see it earlier?"

Morrigan shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you're just not that intelligent."

Alistair flushed. "Yes, well. I don't suppose you'll be able to resist telling everyone how easily fooled I was."

Morrigan just smiled and led the way to the pedestal. She held out her hand. "Hold on tight. We need to find Wynne and Fearghal."

Alistair felt the world lurch and then he and Morrigan were standing outside a cottage. Alistair crept up to the window. Inside he could see Wynne moving around; a man sat at the table, his back to the window.

Alistair crept back to Morrigan. "It's Wynne," he told her. "She's not alone."

"I didn't think she would be, although I doubt she's in such a… compromising position as you were," smirked Morrigan.

Alistair felt the heat in his face and knew he was blushing.

~o~O~o~

Wynne picked up the basket of herbs she had picked early that morning and set about washing them. She had gathered enough to make a large batch of healing potions and poultices. Her mind wandered as she worked and she smiled as she reflected on how good life was.

As a young woman she had expected to live out her life within the confines of the tower. Then it had all changed. Maric had led the rebellion and driven the Orlesians from Ferelden. The mages had turned away with a sigh of resignation when Maric had proclaimed freedom for all, assuming that they were not included, but, incredibly, they had been. Wynne frowned, trying to recall exactly how he had managed to bring such a thing about, but it made her head ache.

A noise upstairs made her raise her head to the ceiling, smiling. Evain. Every day she thanked the Maker for him and the life they had made together. Wynne had been hesitant about leaving the tower; she had nowhere else to go, no family to return to. She had considered devoting her life to scholarship and teaching, after all, the tower would remain as a centre of learning. In her early thirties, she was no longer in the first flush of youth. There was no young man waiting to sweep her off her feet and Wynne held no illusions about men in the outside world; people in general would take a long time to lose their suspicion of mages.

Evain had been a templar in the tower for over ten years. She remembered when he'd first arrived. He'd been wide-eyed and a little wary, yet prepared to take the mages at face value, reserving judgements until he got to know them better. What had struck her most forcibly was how adamant that he'd been that his duty was to protect the mages, from themselves and from those who wished them ill, as much as it was to protect people from them.

He was one of the rare templars that seldom wore his helm. His wasn't a face to make maidens swoon, his features broad and plain, but as Wynne got to know him better, she had noticed the blue eyes that held such kindness, that often sparkled with humour or sparked with interest; the wide mouth that smiled so readily. He wasn't a chatterbox, being more of a listener than a talker, but he had a deep, melodic voice and when he spoke, his words were always slow and considered.

Wynne had liked him from the first and could never pinpoint exactly when that liking had changed into something deeper, for it had been such a gradual process. She remembered the pain and horror of the realisation, though. The knowledge that although Evain was the humane face of the templars, he was a templar and took his vows and his responsibilities seriously. She had buried her feelings and taken to avoiding him. If he noticed, he never mentioned it.

Freedom for the mages had brought changes for the templars too, the vows relating to chastity were abandoned. Templars would be allowed to marry and marriages to mages were even subtly encouraged. It was some months after the proclamation that Evain had come to her, asking for he help. He explained that he had been offered a post at Gwaren, serving the new Teyrn, Loghain Mac Tir. He wanted to take the post but wished to be free of the lyrium addiction that had gradually taken hold of him over the years.

Trying to hide her heartbreak, she had agreed. With a heavy heart, she'd had to explain the risks, that after so long, he risked insanity. He'd listened quietly, then gazed at her steadily, and stated, "I would be free, Wynne. Truly free." She had been unable to refuse; who would understand that better than a mage?

It had taken a month. Two weeks of gradually reducing the dose until the withdrawal symptoms began to appear, then a further two weeks of nursing him while he raved, strapped to an iron bedstead, for his own safety and hers. He'd had lucid moments where he could recall his rantings, demented words that had revealed his fears and hopes. They'd talked quietly for hours during these times.

Then it was time for him to leave. When he'd asked her to marry him and go with him to Gwaren, she hadn't hesitated. Two years into their marriage, the Maker had blessed them with a son. Gaven was now grown and starting his own family. Wynne shook her head in amazement. She was now a grandmother. Whoever could have imagined such a thing thirty years ago?

Wynne gently dried the herbs, looking up as Evain's heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The blond hair had turned white, as had her own. He carried a paunch but was still muscular and strong. More importantly, his blue eyes still sparkled with humour as he greeted her with a peck on the cheek.

"Good morning, old woman. You're the early bird today." His voice was gravelly with sleep, the deep rumbling tones almost a tactile thing she could feel on her skin rather than hear with her ears.

Wynne snorted. "Some of us have things to do, old man," she said indicating the herbs. She abandoned them to start bustling around making porridge and tea.

Evain chuckled and sat himself at the table, pushing the plants to one side, waiting patiently for his breakfast to appear. Wynne looked up at the window as she turned back to the table, setting a mug of tea down in front of her husband. She frowned at a flicker of movement.

"What's the matter, love?" Evain looked up at her, concerned.

"I thought for a moment someone was at the window. It was probably the shadow of a bird."

Evain twisted in his chair to look. As he did so, there was a knock at the door.

Wynne opened the door to the strange couple she'd never seen before. A tall, handsome young man in splint mail and a woman, clearly a mage, wearing the most bizarre outfit Wynne had ever seen.

The young man spoke first, his voice soft and hesitant. "Er... Wynne... you need to come with us... "

"I beg your pardon? Do I know you, young man?" demanded Wynne, astonishment making her voice more tart that usual.

The young man looked helplessly at his companion.

"You're in the fade; this is a dream. Pull yourself together!" snapped the woman impatiently.

Wynne heard Evain get up and come and stand behind her in the doorway.

"Wynne? Who are these people?"

Wynne glanced round at him and shrugged. "I have no idea," she told him.

"It's me, Alistair. I'm a Grey Warden. I came with Fearghal to the tower... there was a rebellion... "

"What kind of mage are you? Does your Circle teach you nothing? Can you not tell this is the Fade?" interrupted Morrigan.

"The Fade?" Wynne looked around confused. She tried to remember the young man, the companion he spoke of but her head felt thick and muzzy. "It's difficult to focus. It feels as though something is... stopping me from concentrating."

Alistair reached out his hand to Wynne. "Come on, being away from here should make you feel much better."

She nodded and stepped towards the door.

"No! Wynne, it's a trick!"

Wynne raised a hand to her head, trying to think. Evain's voice, that deep rumble so familiar, but there was something else too, something underneath it. The young man had mentioned a rebellion but that had been thirty years ago. Uldred. The name swam into her mind, she grasped it before it could float away. Uldred. They'd been to... Ostagar! There was a battle. Blight... darkspawn... Wynne almost threw herself through the door. As she did so, Morrigan gathered her power and Alistair drew his sword and shield.

Wynne stood, watching the cottage fade as the demon concentrated its energy on battling the warrior and the mage. She clasped her hands together, tightly in an effort to still their trembling. Evain. She hadn't thought of him in such a long time. She blinked back tears as she wondered if their son had been allowed to keep the name she'd given him. Then it was over.

Morrigan led the way back to the pedestal and took Wynne's hand. "We need to find Fearghal. Wynne, take Alistair's hand."

Wynne did as instructed, not trusting herself to speak, and Morrigan touched the pedestal.

The landscape lurched again and they found themselves on open ground. The sun was high and bright and a cool breeze ruffled their hair. Alistair looked around curiously. On his left an imposing fortress stood on the hill, to his right the land dropped away to the sea. Ahead of them, Fearghal sat under a tree, leaning back against it. They walked towards him, then Wynne and Morrigan both stopped. There was a man with Fearghal, lying on the ground, with his head resting on Fearghal's thigh.

Morrigan frowned. "This is... different."

Wynne nodded, looking worried. "This is not like my dream. That was hazy, incomplete somehow."

"Mine too, now I think about it," agreed Alistair.

"I think... " said Wynne, "that our dreams were constructed from our imagination, from our hopes or our fears. This... this has been made from his memories. A place he knows well."

"Does that make a difference?" asked Alistair.

Wynne considered his question for a moment. "I don't think so," she told him. "However, it will seem more plausible to him; he may be harder to convince that this isn't real. If this represents all that he has loved and lost, he may not even care if it's real or not."

Warily, they made their way towards Fearghal. All of his attention was focussed on the young man whose head lay in his lap. Alistair's mouth went dry as he took in the look on Fearghal's face, a look so tender and full of open adoration. As Alistair watched, almost holding his breath, Fearghal caressed the man's face and murmured something to him, smiling. Fearghal bent his head and the man raised himself on his elbows, lifting his head to meet the mouth that was descending. The kiss was slow and sensual and Alistair felt a pang of envy to see it.

"Oh my!" exclaimed Wynne softly.

They stood a little way off, reluctant to intrude on such an intimate moment.

The moment was broken by a high-pitched yell and they turned to see a small boy running down the hill. The two men broke apart abruptly and stood up. Alistair looked curiously at the man with Fearghal. He was of a height with Fearghal and, although not armoured, clearly as broad and muscular. His head was wreathed in bright red hair that blazed in the sun and, as he muttered something to Fearghal which made him laugh, the man's smile was free and open; green eyes sparkled with humour. Is this Rory?

"Uncle Fearghal, look!" yelled the boy, waving a small wooden sword as he raced towards the men.

As the child reached them, Fearghal caught him and swung him up into the air laughing as the boy shrieked with excited joy. Fearghal set the boy down, looking behind him at the laughing couple that followed him down the hill.

"Papa said that you might start teaching me how to use it, while he's away with the army," said the boy, gazing up at Fearghal hopefully.

Fearghal grinned down at him. "I might, if it will keep you out of mischief," he agreed. "I'll give you a few lessons and then we'll turn you loose to spar with Ser Gilmore, here."

The child laughed delightedly and jabbed his sword at Gilmore's belly. The red-haired man groaned, then staggered around before collapsing dramatically.

The man and woman arrived at the bottom of the hill, laughing at Gilmore's antics. The man grinned down at the boy. "Don't let Ser Gilmore fool you, Oren, he's not so easily bested. Your Uncle Fearghal's the only warrior at Highever that can still beat him." He grinned at Gilmore slyly, adding "And if you could do something about that in the next week, Gilmore, I'd be very grateful. I've got five sovereigns in Fenwick's sweepstake."

Fearghal burst out laughing at that. "So much for family loyalty, Fergus!"

"If I win, I'll buy you a couple of pints to drown your sorrows in when Gilmore gives you a good hiding," offered Fergus.

"Have you really never beaten Uncle Fearghal, Ser Gilmore?" the boy asked.

"Well, I did once but it was many years ago," smiled Gilmore.

"Yes, and I still bear the proof," muttered Fearghal, rubbing his bent nose.

"Well, if you two could teach Oren how to use a sword and shield without spoiling his good looks, I'd be very grateful," retorted Fergus, grinning.

"Hey! I've been told that it's very... distinguished," protested Fearghal, adopting a hurt tone.

Fergus snorted. "Mother just told you that to make you feel better."

"We need to stop this," muttered Wynne. "The longer he stays, the harder it will be for him to leave." Wynne marched towards the group, with Morrigan close behind. Alistair followed reluctantly; he had seen glimpses of this Fearghal but he had disappeared so quickly. A part of Alistair didn't want this to end, he wanted to carry on watching this Fearghal who laughed and joked, who didn't seem to have an ounce of anger or bitterness in him.

The group turned towards Wynne and Morrigan as they approached. All looked curious and interested except Fearghal. Alistair watched his face go flat, his eyes guarded. He knows! He knows this isn't real.

Wynne obviously reached the same conclusion. "Fearghal, it's time to go," she told him firmly.

Fearghal sighed and nodded. He looked around sadly, then made to move towards Wynne.

"Fearghal, wait! Who are these people?" Gilmore's hand shot out and he grasped Fearghal's arm, trying to hold him back.

Fearghal stopped and looked at Gilmore, his face full of regret. "Rory, I-I... have to go with them."

"But you can't! We need you here. If you leave, we'll die!" protested Gilmore.

Alistair drew his sword as he watched Fearghal almost gasping for breath. Fearghal's voice was full of pain as he nearly choked on his words. "Y-you're already dead, Rory."

Gilmore's face twisted with fury. "We won't let you leave! You are ours!" he yelled, the voice distorting as the demon's nature surfaced.

Fearghal yanked his arm free of Gilmore's grip and strode towards Wynne, Morrigan and Alistair, drawing his sword and hefting his shield. Morrigan drew on her power and sent a blast of chain lightning at the demons. As the spell hit them, they shimmered and assumed their true appearance. As his lover and family disappeared, Fearghal screamed with rage and threw himself at the nearest demon. As the demons died, the landscape around them flickered and dissolved; the facsimile of Highever they had created from Fearghal's memories vanishing until all four demons were dead and only the plain, brown landscape of the fade remained.

"Let's get out of here," muttered Fearghal.