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.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Denerim? Damn Near Killed 'Im

"Look there - what do you suppose is going on in there?"

The second man grumbled something from behind his plague mask, but turned the cumbersome thing to look. Underneath the canvas covering the two large objects they'd seen from the ship were visible the silhouettes of small, stocky figures, laboring up and down a lighted scaffolding. "Dwarven work," he said at last. "None of our business, so long as none of them look out and see us."

"But what in the Maker's name do you suppose they are building?" the first man, also wearing a long-beaked plague mask underneath his black hooded cloak, asked. "I've never seen anyone build something in the middle of a harbor before."

"It's no concern of ours what they're building - and its probably just lighthouses."

"Two lighthouses?" the first man asked, but received no response. The oarsmen brought the longboat close to the dock and another man jumped out and tied the little vessel fast to the piles. The six occupants of the boat all wore the grim, beaky plague masks, the long nosepieces stuffed with dried spindleweed, elfroot, and salubrious enbrium, and all six wore long, hooded black cloaks. The seventh occupant of the longboat was contained within a large wooden crate resting upon a bier, and each of the six men found a handhold and hoisted the box and its inhabitant out of the craft.

"The Alienage is this way - quickly now," the leader of the "plague doctors" said, and the six men moved off through the docks, keeping to the shadows, making their best effort to avoid detection. When guards were spotted they were quick to take cover, and they carried their grim and bulky burden with professional stealth and practiced grace. When they finally made the walls of the Alienage they dropped their load inside the gate without concern for the welfare of its occupant.

Two of the plague doctors pulled from within their cloaks long steel pry bars, and with but a moment's work they broke the box apart. A sickly, fragile-looking young man, underfed, pale, and covered in his own waste and the remains of what little food had been pushed in to him through a narrow flap on the side of the box, lay helpless upon the bier, too weak to move. Whether this weakness came from the advanced condition of his illness or his long confinement in the tiny box would be impossible to determine. The young man was an elf, and he was very sick indeed.

"Quickly now, back to the boat," the leader of the plague doctors said, and the men abandoned their strange burden and fled back to the docks and the waiting longboat. They did not care now whether the young man survived until morning, for it no longer mattered. His illness would do the work it was intended for whether he was alive to see it or not.

The Fighting Ferelden stood at anchor in the deep waters off Denerim bay, rocking gently in the calm waters. Launched just days ago, she remained at home port while nervous shipwrights observed her behavior in the water - like unto a broad-backed sea turtle, riding low and lazy on the surface, calmly oblivious to the waves despite the jitters of the tiny organisms that hitched a ride on her back or in her belly - and to bring her almost entirely green crew up to speed.

Among the crew were almost a dozen apostates, recruited through the Crown's surreptitious maneuvering to bring in as many mages as possible. They dressed in the same rough manner as the regular sailors, but their purpose on board the ship was very specific - these mages claimed to be masters of the difficult art of conjuring favorable winds, spells of haste, and spells to make the heavy, bulky ship move as lightly in the water as any clipper. Training maneuvers were difficult to arrange, due to fears of Chantry witnesses, and no one knew yet just how well these bonuses would help the vessel in an actual sea battle.

A sailor approached the Second Mate, who was acting as the evening Watch Commander. "Ser…there's a vessel been spotted at anchor about a league to starboard. She's not burning any lights."

"Colors?"

"None to be seen, Ser. Reckon they're raiders or slavers, or just generally up to no good."

"Well, we should put a stop to that." And the Second Mate left the deck to rouse the captain. In short order the man was up and barking orders, and the Fighting Ferelden's anchor was raised and her sails were set. Since it was dark and they were well offshore it seemed a good time to test the mages' claims, so the apostates were set to fill the sails with favorable winds and make the wallowing vessel sail smoothly. The speed with which the big ship managed to close the distance surprised every man aboard, and when bare eyes could see the activity on deck of the strange vessel, it was clear they'd taken their prey by surprise, as well.

The First Mate bellowed across the distance an edict for the darkened vessel to identify itself and its business. There was no response for a good long while, and the Second Mate pointed out to the Captain that the crew of the other ship appeared to be hauling a longboat out of the sea, loaded with six dark figures. The First Mate repeated his command, along with a warning that if the other ship failed to comply, the Fighting Ferelden was ready and willing to live up to its name. The silence held, and then a response came at last - in the form of a ballista bolt roughly the size of an harpoon that bounced harmlessly off the ironclad's side. The captain chuckled grimly.

"That wasn't very friendly of them, was it?" he said. "Load the forecastle catapult, and send them a message that manners are important to Fereldens."

A crew of men ran below and reemerged from the hold carrying an enormous tar bomb, which they loaded into the catapult and sent flying at the enemy ship. An apostate cast a fireball at the bomb as it sailed across the waters, so that when it struck the wooden mast and rigging it was flaming brilliantly. In moments the main of the two-masted vessel's sails were ablaze. The sounds of screams and flurried, panicked commands were heard from the burning ship - commands given in Orlesian.

"Sink her," the captain of the Fighting Ferelden commanded. "We'll pluck what prisoners we can take from the water once she's down."

The ship's reinforced steel bowsprit, and the sharp metal "figurehead" that was nothing more or less than a gigantic axe bit, were pointed directly at the other vessel's broadside. Mages summoned wind into her sails, and the Fighting Ferelden zoomed toward the Orlesian ship with unnatural speed. The smaller ship was sheared in half by the force of the collision, wooden construction splintering and breaking with an almighty thunder. The Fighting Ferelden took only minor damage - some of her rigging caught fire when it came too close to the blazing wreckage of the other boat. One of the apostates doused the flames with a simple ice spell, and they didn't even lose a sail.

The Orlesian ship sank out of sight in swift order, leaving only scattered remnants floating on the surface to mark that it was ever there at all. Lanterns at the end of long poles were strung out to search the dark waters for survivors. They found only three. A longboat was shipped out to take prisoners, and the Fighting Ferelden made for Denerim harbor, to remand the Orlesians to the custody of the guards of Fort Drakon. The men were cheerful and sang victorious shanties as they worked. The captain was less pleased than the men, wondering exactly what sort of devilry the longboat full of Orlesians got up to before they were found out. But at least the perpetrators had been brought to justice, the ship and her crew had acquitted themselves admirably, and the three prisoners currently cooling their heels in the hold would tell the talented interrogators in Fort Drakon everything they knew about the Orlesians' mission - eventually.

A hooded figure slipped through the back streets behind the Palace District in the dead of night, followed closely by a large dog. At one point hound and figure stopped, listening, as a great crash far out at sea resounded through the night, but eventually, undaunted, they continued on. Whatever was going on out on the ocean was out of their hands.

They finally stopped before the servants' entrance to the palace cellars, where a burly guard leaned against the wall with a studied show of indifference. "What do you want?" the man asked.

"King Alistair sent me."

"Did 'e now? All right, you lot - go on in, then." And the guard was kind enough to hold the door.

There ought to have been bare corridor inside, or stacks of root vegetables. Instead there was an ornate desk and a well-dressed man sitting at it with his head in his hands. The man heard them approach and looked up. Dark circles shadowed bright hazel eyes, but no amount of weariness or care could change the perpetual affability of that face.

"King Alistair!" Hawke gasped, surprised.

"Hello. Are you an apostate? Don't be afraid - there's no ambush. The Crown really and truly is hiring, so to speak."

"I…I am no apostate, Your Majesty, I wished only to investigate the offer of amnesty. On behalf of…friends."

"You're not another Chantry loyalist, are you?" Alistair asked, with a moue of distaste. "There've been three thus far, and I was most aggrieved to have to kill them. They were, after all, only doing what they thought was right. I'm sure my father-in-law would have been proud of me, at least."

"No, Your Majesty, I am certainly no Chantry loyalist," Hawke said, with a smile evident in her voice. "Actually I am currently wanted by the Chantry, for questioning regarding the incidents in Kirkwall." She pushed back her hood and revealed her face.

"Champion Hawke!" King Alistair said. It was clearly his turn to be surprised. "I had not heard you were in Ferelden."

Hawke blushed. "Yes, Your Majesty, and for that I apologize. I meant to announce my presence and offer my services, but after so long away, and everything that happened here, I found I barely knew the city. Then, too, it was hard to know just how…visible I could afford to make myself."

"I suppose I understand that," Alistair said, "but I wouldn't be too surprised to find myself on the Chantry's Most Wanted list these days. Fortunately Ferelden's Grand Cleric is sympathetic to the Crown and is not only doing her best to keep the Divine out of our hair, but she's also gracious enough to look the other way while I bring in as many apostates as we can gather to help us out. You are here on behalf of a mage, then? I had heard you had dealings with apostates in Kirkwall. You understand that I can't offer open amnesty - not yet, at any rate. Once things are settled with the Empire, I'm hoping that will change."

"But it is a genuine offer? The Crown will provide protection in exchange for service?"

"It is, and we shall. Not that we feel particularly secure in the current climate ourselves. But the more mages we have on our side, the safer we feel - that much I can swear to. Er…if I may ask, what mage is it you're here to represent?"

Hawke considered lying, or prevaricating at the very least, but she was a straightforward individual and even her very brief previous contact with this man suggested to her that he was the sort to appreciate that kind of honesty - and the sort who could be trusted with it. "My sister," she said at last. "And my lover, as well. They and a few of my companions came with me when we left Kirkwall after the incident with Knight-Commander Meredith."

"I see," Alistair said. "Well, I'll gladly offer any and all security that I am able, to you and all your companions. We would certainly welcome your aid."

Hawke bowed. "You shall have it. One of my friends is captain of a fine vessel - if it will aid Ferelden in any way, I will do my utmost to convince her to offer her service to the Crown."

"We could definitely use another ship. We've managed to secure a few mercenary warships, but of Ferelden's own navy? That gigantic hulk of metal offshore is it. A fast ship, capable of outstripping pursuit, would be most welcome at this point. We've been sending out for allies but the most distant ones - Nevarra, for example - have had to wait. And Nevarra would be our best asset at this point, even if all they did was renew their assault on Orlais' western border."

"Isabella's ship is the fastest in the Waking Sea. And she's well-armed."

"Well send her my felicitations, and tell her that Ferelden is quite willing to pay handsomely. Plus she and her crew may keep any spoils they happen to 'liberate' in the pursuit of duty."

Hawke chuckled. "I'm sure she'll like that idea."

"Listen, why don't you bring your friends 'round the palace proper in the morning? It would be good to convey my offer properly and in person, and I'd rather like to meet them. And there's someone here I believe you're familiar with, who'd probably like to see you again."

"Someone I'm familiar with? Wouldn't by any chance be a funny little dwarf named Varric, would it?"

Alistair chuckled. "No, more of a…strong-willed ginger with an Orlesian name."

Hawke grinned. "Aveline! So she came back to Ferelden after all! She's in your service?"

He nodded. "She and her husband both - in fact, they're part of the Queen's retinue now, personal bodyguard. I remembered her from the time we spoke in Kirkwall. Seemed exactly the sort we wanted on our side."

"She is. I shall be very happy to see her again. And Donnic, as well."

"I suspect they will feel likewise. The first thing Aveline asked after joining our service was whether or not we'd had any word from you."

"I hope she'll be happy to see me. She didn't exactly like the fact that I sided against the templars after what happened to the Chantry, but she stood by me."

"She doesn't seem bent on revenge, if that's what you're worried about. Given what we've heard about what happened in Kirkwall, I think justice was on your side, even if the Chantry wasn't."

"As far as that goes, the templars stood aside and let us escape after they saw what had happened to their Knight-Commander. She was out of her mind, I fear, driven mad by a cursed relic from the Deep Roads."

"Things have improved for the mages of Kirkwall, as I understand it, under the command of Knight-Commander Cullen. He's still rather strict, but he's also been one of the most outspoken opponents of the Divine's recent edicts against mages. I was part of the party that rooted out the blood mages who took over the Ferelden Circle, and we found Cullen held prisoner within a cage of magic the likes of which I'd never seen before. With all he suffered its no wonder he thinks mages are to be carefully supervised, but its good to see he's not so…radical in his treatment of them as Knight-Commander Greagoir once feared he would become."

"He had his moments, believe me. After I spoke out to him against the templars' treatment of mages, and he took my sister from our home in lowtown, he wasn't exactly my biggest fan. But I believe he is a good man, and a stiff dose of the kind of crazy Meredith was could cure anybody of being too radical." Hawke paused a moment, then asked, "If I may, Your Majesty, does it really pay you to stay up all night, waiting for apostates to happen by?"

Alistair chuckled wearily. "I'm up all night, regardless, so I might as well do something useful with my time. Most nights I just sit here and go over old trade agreements and all the umpteen-million complaints authored by the pernickety bannorn, but some nights I get a score of apostates willing to help out. It seems worthwhile, somehow."

"I feel I should tell you, in case you didn't hear - there was a god-awful crashing sound out on the sea. I expect something big and bad happened, though whether 'twas to our benefit or not I do not know."

Alistair sighed. "If we're lucky then it was the Fighting Ferelden proving its value. If we're unlucky it was the Fighting Ferelden sinking. I'll know soon enough, I expect. Loghain will kill me if I lose his ship."

"Do you…really trust him?" Hawke asked tentatively. "I mean, I heard about the Battle of Sulcher, but…I can't quite forget seeing the beacon at Ishal burning brightly…and not seeing our general charging to defend us."

"You were with the army at Ostagar, then?" Alistair asked. "It is…difficult to trust Loghain, in the wake of everything that happened during the Blight. But I have rather reluctantly come to the opinion that he is a better man than I gave him credit for. I cannot forgive him or even fully understand everything he did, but I believe he will do nothing further to harm Ferelden…at least not intentionally. And right now he and the Lady Elilia Cousland are on a very important mission to save our land, quite literally. Reports from the bannorn indicate they've met with considerable success. With her to keep watch over him, I suppose I have no fears - although I could wish I didn't think she were watching him just a little bit too closely."

"Lady Elilia Cousland? The Hero of Ferelden?"

"The same. She has recently been restored to the nobility, and I believe that if the Queen has her way - and she always has her way - then Elilia will be made Teyrna of Gwaren, and Loghain will be her Teyrn-Consort."

"Teyrn-Consort?" Hawke asked, in some confusion.

"A title we do not use in Ferelden, or rather haven't since the Black Age, before ever we even were a nation. But I expect the nobility will insist upon it, and I can't say myself but that I won't feel a trifle better about things if that diminution is in place. Not that I expect it to make the slightest real difference - if Elilia wants to let him have a say in the way things are run in Gwaren, I expect she'll do it no matter how nervous it makes the bannorn."

"They are…lovers, then?"

"So it would seem. No accounting for taste, I guess."

The guard poked his head in then, interrupting further discussion.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'liege, but I've just 'ad a report that the Fighting Ferelden has put into dock with a trio of Orlesian prisoners aboard. Evidently they sunk a' Orlesian ship in Denerim 'arbor, which accounts for that a'mighty ruckus a time ago. F'ought ye'd like to know, Yer Majesty - they've sent th' prisoners to Drakon for questionin'."

"Hmm, good news - at least if Old Ironsides caught them before they did any damage. I suppose I should go to Fort Drakon and oversee the interrogation. Ah - if anyone should happen by…?"

"Not to worry, Yer Majesty. I'll tell 'em you've gone a-visitin' and send 'em to the kitchens for a hot meal an' a place t' doss down 'til ye can see 'em."

"Good man. Champion Hawke…until tomorrow, then?"

She bowed. "Until tomorrow, Your Majesty."