Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.

A/N: Technically, there is no reason to suppose that the ashes of Andraste would make grass grow super-fast. Just because she heals it doesn't mean she gives it a shot of growth hormone. But grass grows fast even under ordinary circumstances, and this is a supernatural event, and it makes it clear that the ashes have worked, so I think I'm justified.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Blightlands

The dwarves arrived a little more than two weeks after Loghain and Elilia's party left Denerim. They were led by none other than Vartag Gavorn himself, King Behlen's trusted - albeit slightly greasy - Second. The usual courtesies were paid at the Palace, but then the King and Queen were made rather an unusual request - to join the dwarven delegation on the quays for their presentation.

Kings and Queens are not comfortable in such seedy areas as harbor frontage, even Kings and Queens "of the people" as Alistair and Anora were considered. Royal bodyguards are even less comfortable in such places, and tend to hover rather annoyingly close to their charges. But they lifted up their skirts - metaphorically but for Anora who did so literally - and followed the dwarven procession to the docks, where they were met by quite a sight - a dozen enormous steel-built wagons, each pulled by an eight-bronto hitch. The contents of these vehicles were covered with plain canvas tarpaulins, but it was clear the loads were tremendous.

"King Behlen understands what it is to rule - what it is to have enemies. Since your Warden not only assisted my King in attaining his rightful throne, but also assisted us in regaining the lost technology that has enabled us to defend our borders and reclaim territory from the scourge of the Darkspawn, King Behlen wishes to offer your nation a taste of the victory the dwarves have had in recent days. The restoration of Kal-Hirol has given us the means to produce wonders that we haven't had the manpower or resources to do for generations. Because of this windfall our King felt that a generous gesture with our near neighbors and great allies was more than appropriate. He wishes me to convey his sincerest hope that you will crush your enemies, and also to inform you that if you would consider bolstering your own armies with a core of a few golems, we would be happy to deal with you. We learned from our mistakes of years past, and do not intend to open up trade of these precious constructs, so Ferelden is the only nation that may choose to benefit from our Paragon's researches."

Alistair, who knew the dreadful secret behind the creation of golems, attempted valiantly to hide his discomfiture at being offered a sales pitch. "That is certainly a generous offer, Ser Vartag, and one we will most definitely keep in mind - but at the moment we've invested our national treasury pretty heavily in shoring up fortifications in our major harbors. I don't think we could afford golems at the present."

"We understand. Indeed, harbor defenses is entirely why we are here, Your Majesty," Vartag said. "Dwarves are not seafarers by nature, so we certainly understand a culture that looks upon the sea with justifiable suspicion, but you are Surfacers, and coastlines are a terrible weak spot in your national defenses. We can help you with that. We have built for you a pair of Guardian Statues to flank the entrance to Denerim Harbor, enchanted with barrier spells to prevent seaborne assault on the city."

"Statues? Is that what's in the carts?" Alistair asked. "They're in pieces, I assume? They must be huge."

Vartag chuckled. "Your Majesty, the statues are still en route from Orzammar. The carts contain the pieces of their bases, and my craftsmen and enchanters will begin construction of them immediately. This is the part that will take longest, for we must set up barrier wards to keep the ocean back while we work, but it will not take many days - and we will not be an impediment to shipping."

"You're putting them in the water?" Alistair asked. "How do you manage that?"

"Enchantment. Believe me when I say, Your Majesty, that our statues will defend your city capably for millennia."

"Give King Behlen our sincerest gratitude for this generous gift and his gracious offer of further assistance," Anora said. An exchange of nods and bows were made, and the King and Queen were able to make a dignified exit while dwarven supervisors began barking orders at their laborers. Anora whispered an aside to her husband when they were out of Vartag's earshot. "Of course you realized what this really is, don't you?"

Alistair chuckled. "A bribe. If these 'Guardian Statues,' whatever they are, are as grand as they seem to be claiming, we'll be beholden to 'Good King Behlen,' and likely that's a marker he'll call in sooner rather than later."

"If they keep Denerim from falling to Orlesian warships, then when we've settled matters with the Empire I'll gladly send any aid we can afford to Orzammar."

"I agree. Good to know we're on the same page. I just hope that whatever these statues are, they're not as blocky and…dwarven as their Paragon statues. They're impressive, surely, but as a representation of Ferelden they would be bloody god-awful." He lengthened his stride abruptly as they neared the dockyards. "Hey - while we're here, let's check in on Old Ironsides. Last report said she was about ready to launch."

Anora suppressed a wry grin at the eagerness in her husband's voice. Men were all such little boys about big boats.

The big ironclad was indeed prepared for launch, in fact it was already in position for the big moment, awaiting only its crew. The master shipwright informed the eager King about the repairs and improvements made with pride of ownership in his voice.

They were not unobserved. Not a hundred feet away a ship rested at anchor, awaiting its turn to declare at the Harbormaster's dock. It was a long wait even on a good day, and all was quiet aboard The Siren's Call II as the sleepy crew lounged below decks mostly, waiting. One figure leaned indolently against the mast, as casually possessive of the vessel as only a captain or a cabin boy could ever be. It was a woman, scantily clad and Rivaini-colored, who watched the Royal goings-on with sharp caramel-brown eyes. After a time she walked over to a hatch and knocked on it with the heel of her boot.

"Hey, come on out and see this."

She moved away, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, and the hatch opened. Another woman climbed out, followed closely by yet a third and a large, dusty-grey hound. The second woman was slim, and her careless hair was prematurely white. Her face, however, was unlined, and if it was rather plain it had a look of honesty to it. It also had a bold tattoo, done relatively lightly in red ink, of a stylized bird of prey that spanned both cheeks and stretched from forehead to chin - a mark that went well with her far-seeing amber-gold eyes. The third woman was even more slender, almost birdlike, and her face too was tattooed, but the dark brown marks were the traditional vallaslin of the Dalish.

"What is it, Isabella?" the white-haired woman asked. "Trouble?"

"No, just thought you'd want a chance to ogle your King and Queen before suing for audience, is all," Isabella said. She tossed her chin in the direction of the dockyards. "There they are, if you can see them through the crowd of armed attendants. The Queen I am unfamiliar with, though she looks a bit of an iceberg, don't she? The King I met some time ago, though he wasn't a king at the time. Funny how things work out for some people."

The Dalish woman cocked her head to one side questioningly, a birdlike motion, and asked, "He wasn't a King? What was he, then?"

Isabella laughed. "Well, I assume he was a prince, Kitten, if only by a technicality. My understanding is that Good King Alistair was a Royal Bastard."

"Why would they call him Good King Alistair if he were a bastard?" Merrill asked. Her companions only chuckled and shook their heads at each other.

"Don't worry, Kitten," Isabella said. "'Tis in the contrary nature of humanity that some bastards are actually very nice people. My impression of His Majesty at the time was that he was rather a sweet little lad, all flustered and uncomfortable to be tagging along behind his Big Sister Warden at a brothel, of all places. Speaking of which, I hope the Pearl is still in business. I suppose the Lay Warden isn't working anymore, but there's bound to be someone interesting there."

Hawke laughed. "Not to worry, Isabella. I'm sure the prostitutes were the first people in Denerim to be restored to prosperity."

Looking back, Loghain had to say the dragonlings were the least of their worries. They ran into a small nest of them, unguarded, three days into the heavily Blighted lands. It was a rough skirmish but despite their lack of experience fighting alongside each other the party worked seamlessly as one, and the only injuries were minor and easy for Seanna's powerful healing spells to deal with. But that was three days in. By the seventh day, the team learned well that there were far worse things making their home in the Blightlands than baby dragons.

Giant spiders were common, alarmingly so. Loghain had never seen such enormous spiders outside of the Deep Roads, and he didn't like to think about them spreading throughout Ferelden, but they were at least relatively easy to kill. The bad part was numbers, much more so even than their venom, and several times they were nearly overwhelmed. Elilia and Laz ripped them apart as quickly as they could while Varric and Seanna pounded away with bolts and spells from behind Loghain's defending shield. The dogs pitched in, as well, for it was impossible to tell Champion to stay back now that she was Alpha. Loghain wasn't particularly happy about that, but he had to admit they were a tremendous asset even as young as they were.

The mature dragon they encountered on the seventh day, however, was a terrible battle even though it stood alone. It was not as large as a High Dragon by any means, but it was the next worst thing, and it took them by ambush. Fortunately, Varric at least seemed to have had some experience in slaying dragons, which was a tremendous boon. Laz was completely unprepared and took massive injuries, but the end of the battle found her riding high on the dragon's neck, gleefully driving the blade of her main-hand waraxe into the top of the beast's skull while Loghain's blade drew life's blood from the creature's armored throat. The burns Laz suffered kept Seanna awake all night, and the poor mage had to swallow enough lyrium potions to get quite drunk on the stuff. All told, they got off rather easily.

In camp that night there was little talk. Everyone was weary, Seanna worked feverishly to heal Laz' wounds, and despite the victory they all felt rather hollow in the aftermath. To boost morale, Loghain decided that it was a good time to try another dose of ashes on the Blight-corrupted ground. He briefly considered using a small pinch on Laz, but discarded the idea after a moment's thought. The wounds had to be utterly excruciating but the woman gave no sign of it, and her life was in no danger. By the time Seanna was done she probably wouldn't even have any major scars, not that he thought losing her "cute" would bother the dwarf in the slightest. He would save the ashes against the possibility that someone could take Blightsick from so much exposure to corrupted land.

The results of that first test were encouraging, to say the least. Miles of Ferelden countryside showed the effects, and although it was early autumn the land bloomed like spring. But that had been a test on earth but lightly poisoned, and there was no telling how effective the ashes would prove on ground burnt black by the tainted legions that soured it. Loghain had wanted to be well and fully in the middle of the Blightlands when they made this second experiment, to see how far the effect would spread.

He gestured to Elilia to join him at the edge of camp. She trudged with heavy steps, thoroughly disheartened by the fight and the blackness all around, and he gave her a tender, lingering kiss before explaining what he wanted. She only nodded half-heartedly and helped him retrieve the ashes from the inside of his chest piece. Once again he dug a slight hole in the earth and Elilia sprinkled in a small pinch of time-powdered remains.

As before, the effect was not immediately visible, but once it started it spread like wildfire. The barren black earth was transformed, turning the rich black of fine, fertile soil, the kind of soil that grows tall prairie grasses and wildflowers, the kind of soil that grows tall corn and golden wheat, the kind of soil that could pasture sheep and cattle. And then a true wonder occurred, grasses began to sprout from that rich black earth, from seeds that had lain dormant and tainted beneath the barren lands but remained viable. Within a very few minutes all that was black turned beautifully green.

With a deep sigh and a huge smile, Elilia fell back into the budding grasses with her arms outstretched. "This…is good for the soul," she said. "I needed this."

Loghain felt rather a lot better himself, and smiled as he tied up the bag and stowed it away again inside his armor. He stood and took a three hundred and sixty-degree survey of the plain, and saw everything greening up all the way to the far horizon. The sight buoyed his spirits and it was a fit of rare optimism that made him think this venture would conclude much sooner and with better results than he'd ever anticipated. They could cure all the Blightlands, he was sure of it, and while they'd probably miss Harvestmere he was certain they'd be home by Satinalia. That was something to look forward to, his first grand holiday with his grandchildren.

The dogs played in the new grass, barking, chasing each other, and rolling ecstatically. Elilia still lay with her arms outstretched, smiling up at the clear near-dusk sky. He thought they had the right idea. Abandoning dignity, he simply dropped to the ground like a felled tree and lay there for a long time, listening to the grass crackle and snap like popped corn. Sometimes, it seemed, the ashes didn't even have to make contact with someone in order to heal them.