The soft glow of the embers in the grate of the fireplace drew the Arl's gaze as he sat at his desk. It had only been an hour or so since Alistair had permitted Eamon to dismiss him with the promise that he would speak further with the Warden-Commander on the young King's behalf. A promise that he would do his best to find a solution that would help to dissipate the brewing political storm which was gathering once more over Ferelden. A promise that was already nipping at his conscience.

It was necessity.

But as he stared into the remains of the fire, it was the burning sheets of vellum which Alistair had so resolutely fed to the flames only two days ago which Eamon saw in his mind's eye. Just as the inked lineages had been incinerated as the flames licked across the vellum, so too had the great noble families of Ferelden been burned by the ferocity of Loghain's madness.

The Couslands, Howes and Mac Tirs were all but extinct. The continuation of the Guerrin bloodline rested entirely with Teagan. Sighard, Alfstanna and Bryland had all suffered their own traumas from which it would take time for their lines to recover from. The very lifeblood of Ferelden was seeping away and with no way of stemming the flow, it was vital that the ancestry of one bloodline remained constant above all others. The Theirin line had to continue. Alistair must be permitted to take his place as King.

It was necessity.

Crossing over the Drakon River and moving through the crooked streets of Denerim with the taste of the sea air beginning to bite at the back of his throat, Torih kept a watchful eye on the Antivan Crow in front of him. Purposefully keeping a few paces behind the other elf, the Orlesian Warden was becoming impatient with the seemingly unnecessary diversion away from the market district and nearer towards the docks.

Lengthening his stride so that he walked only half a step behind, he growled at the Crow. "Where are you headed?"

"You do not wish to discuss our business amidst the filth of the streets, I assume?"

"I do not wish to return to Orlais either," Torih snapped.

The sound of a low chuckle drifted over the shoulder of the Antivan. "Patience, we are not far."

Left with little option save for abandoning the unexpected opportunity to interrogate the Antivan, Torih continued to shadow the footsteps of the elf though he made little effort to disguise the bad grace with which he did so.

Wherever the Crow was headed, the streets they were moving through were outwardly respectable despite being within staggering distance of the docks themselves. Save for the damage which had been inflicted during the onslaught from the Horde and the scattered debris that remained as a result, the various frontages were unremarkable. Here and there, creaking signs hung above the doors depicting what lay within but the rest kept their secrets well-hidden.

One of the buildings had both sign and lantern above its door. An orb had been carved into the sign but whether it was intended as more than the simple shape it represented, it was difficult to tell in the gloom. But it was the lit lantern, a flickering beacon of jaded promise, in a district otherwise deserted which was more clue as to the business contained within than anything else. And it was of course to this door that the Crow adjusted his direction towards.

A young human boy sat cross-legged to one side with ragged breeches and an ill-fitting shirt the only barriers between his skin and the chill of the sea air blowing in from the harbour. A small stick in hand, the lad had angled himself to that the shapes he was drawing in the dirt were perfectly framed in the murky pool of light cast by the lantern.

The Antivan made to enter the building without a second glance towards the boy but Torih slowed to a stop and squinted at the scribbles. A crude line drawing but the elf recognised what was intended as a dragon. There were a handful of stick outlines scrawled at its feet.

Crouching down beside the child, the Orlesian Warden pointed to the creature. "That's the Archdemon, isn't it?"

"Yup." A toothy grin helped to distinguish the boy's features from the shadows which fell across his face.

"And these?" Torih shifted his finger to the stick-figures.

The grin faded and although Torih could not see the boy's expression, his tone suggested the lad was pouting. "Can't you tell?"

"One, two, thr... there are five figures. This," Torih gestured at the one nearest the dragon, "this is your Hero?" He moved to the figure with a three-pronged line above the head. "And this is your King?"

A guarded grunt rewarded the elf's deductions.

"Then who are these?"

"That's him," the shadows across the boy's face rippled as he jerked his head in the direction of Zevran while pointing to the figure that lay to one side of the dragon. Belatedly, Torih realised that the short single line drawn on either side of the figure's head were intended as pointed ears. "And that's the Witch lady." The figure had a long single line drawn next to the arm in an effort to represent a staff. "And that's the dwarf man. 'Cept he's not got a beard. I dunno how to draw that."

Cocking his head to the side, Torih reached forward and with his finger drew a small triangle across the face of the squat outline. He scraped at the dirt with his nail so that it became a darker shade than the rest. Rocking back on his heels, he raised an eyebrow towards the boy as means of seeking approval.

The lad leant forward into the pool of light. Catching sight of the critical eye with which the boy studied the creative collaboration, Torih suppressed a small smile as he waited for the verdict.

The toothy grin surfaced again as the boy glanced back at Torih. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, young ser."

"You're a Grey Warden, aren't you?"

Pushing up from his crouching position, the elf straightened to his full height. "Yes."

"Like the Hero. I'll draw you next to her," the boy hunched over his drawing and began to scratch at the dirt with his stick.

Without bidding the lad goodbye, Torih turned away and fixed a glare on the Antivan who had paused in the doorway while he watched the exchange. "Well, Crow?"

"This way." Making no further comment, the Crow pushed open the door and walked into the public rooms of the brothel which lay behind.

Following in his footsteps once more, Torih cast an eye over the surroundings which the Antivan apparently regarded as more agreeable than the taverns of the market district. Scrubbed floors, polished tables and throughout the pervading stench of stale lust. But with pretty whores to at least occupy the wandering eye, Torih conceded that there were worse establishments.

"A drink, yes?" The elf threw the question over his shoulder as he approached the small bar.

Wary of the reputed skill with which the Antivan Crows wielded their poisons and surveying the small collection of bottles containing liquids of various colours, all of which could easily be laced with some toxin, Torih shook his head. "No."

"As you please," the Crow shrugged before addressing the stern-faced woman behind the bar. The small conversation which passed between them was tinged with a flirtatious lechery from the elf and a grudging familiarity from the woman. Torih had the impression that both the elf and his coin were well-known within these walls.

Pointing to one of the bottles filled with an amber liquid, the Antivan exchanged some of his said coin with the woman. Grasping the bottle in his hand, he moved to one of the tables in the middle of the room without looking back at Torih.

A quick survey of the room convinced the Orlesian Warden that he was in no immediate danger of being set upon and he moved towards the table, sliding into the wooden chair opposite the Crow. The Antivan raised the bottle to his lips and took a draught, rolling the liquid round in his mouth before swallowing.

"Let me introduce myself. My name is Zevran Arainai. Zev to my friends."

"We are not friends."

There was another gravelly chuckle as Zevran fixed a steady gaze on his new companion. "The night is still young."

"Talk, Crow." Clenching his jaw, Torih resisted the urge to grind his teeth.

Before Zevran could respond, one of the whores sashayed her way across the room towards them. Nearing the table, she trailed a hand across the table top and up the chest of the Antivan as she moved behind him. Bending down, she leant close to his head and swirled her tongue around the very tip of his ear before murmuring something to him. A seductive smile began to blossom on her face as she turned a covetous look on Torih, her lips moving faster as she whispered with greater urgency into Zevran's ear.

"Talk, Crow," Torih bristled.

"She is keen to experience the fabled Warden stamina," Zevran took another mouthful from the bottle, sucking through his teeth as he savoured the faint burning sensation as it trickled down his throat.

"Talk, Crow!"

With a sigh steeped in lustful regret, Zevran ducked his head away from the woman and patted the hand which had come to a rest on his shoulder. "It would seem not, my dear. Perhaps another time."

"Bear it in mind," she smirked at Zevran before moving onto another patron.

Glowering at the other elf, the Orlesian Warden crossed his arms across his chest. The Antivan paid no attention and took his time in taking another drink before he settled the bottle back on the table. Running a wetted tongue along the bottom of his lip, he finally settled to business. "What is it you seek here?"

"It does not concern you."

"You have not found it though, have you?"

Finding an answer in the sullen silence which followed, Zevran ran his middle finger in slow circles around the narrow rim of the bottle. "My friend, this does not have to be so torturous."

The perpetual scowl deepened and a growl escaped from between the clamped lips.

"Let us be frank, yes?" Disregarding the bottle, the Crow leant across the table as he focused all his attention on Torih. "We both wish to know what the other knows. An exchange of information as it were."

"You assume I have something to tell."

"As do you." Zevran allowed himself a broad grin as he leant back in his seat again.

A confrontational silence radiated from Torih. He was beginning to appreciate that the anticipated challenge was one that he was not as assured of winning as usual. And as Zevran lounged in the chair with a self-confidence borne from his own experiences of being master in his environment, Torih was forced to confront the unwelcome realisation that he was slowly but surely losing control of the situation while the Crow seemed to be revelling in it.

"Cousland did not travel with the army," Torih grunted at last.

"It is no secret she lay injured in the city."

"No. There is more."

"Truly?"

Torih sensed that somehow he had stumbled on an advantage. For the Antivan to dismiss an apparently irrelevant detail was at odds with the self-assured manner in which he approached everything else. The Orlesian Warden narrowed his eyes as realisation dawned. Intent as he had been on uncovering the mystery surrounding the female and bastard, he had overlooked who else the dwarf had failed to mention. "Neither did you."

"No."

"You were with her."

"Yes."

A smirk playing at the corner of Torih's mouth loosened the building tension in his jaw. "You seem to have lost your charm, Crow."

"Oh?" A quiet chuckle suggested that the Antivan was far from perturbed at either the statement or the ones which had preceded it. He rested his hand around the base of the bottle but did not lift it to take a drink.

"Why did she not travel with the army?"

"Come friend, you cannot expect all the answers and give none yourself."

Snatching the bottle from Zevran's grasp, his own fingers wrapped themselves around the slender and fragile glass neck as Torih attempted to sate his urge to inflict the same movement on the Antivan. "Tell me, Crow."

Almost as though he was aware of Torih's desire, Zevran taunted the Orlesian Warden by leaning against the table and meeting his gaze with an unblinking stare of his own. In a low voice that hinted more towards seduction than intimidation, the Antivan allowed a faint leer to break through. "You have much to learn about successful interrogation, my friend."

"No doubt you wish to teach me." Torih could taste the scorn with which he laced each and every word as they passed over his lips.

Another wide grin swallowed the lecherous leer and transformed the Crow's face as he pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. "There is much I wish to teach but alas, I do not think you truly wish to learn."

Interest piqued by the sudden movement from the Antivan, the young whore sauntered over and draped herself around him. One hand traced the outline of his ear as she threw an inquisitive glance towards Torih. "Has he changed his mind, Zev?"

Frustration and rage at the interruption fed into one another and warped Torih's sense of perspective. Without waiting for the Antivan to answer the girl, the Orlesian Warden shoved his chair back and let it clatter to the floor. His hand was halfway to reaching for the knife at his back before he was able to gather himself.

Becoming dimly aware of the handful of men responding to the charged tension between the elves and beginning to close in on them, Torih forced his arm to drop to his side. Without waiting for further comment from either the whore or the Antivan, Torih spun on heel and stormed from the brothel. The men parted in front of him and offered no resistance once it became clear where he was headed. It appeared that whatever other rumours circulated about Grey Wardens, the one regarding their fighting skill was one that was sufficient to deter the majority save for the most foolhardy.

Slamming the door behind him, Torih came to an unceremonious halt in the empty street. The air was still cool and as his breath clouded in front of him, he realised he was panting. His body was tensed for the fight it still anticipated and he felt a desperate need to vent the surplus energy before it consumed him.

Glancing round for something, anything, which would offer him some relief, he glimpsed the scrawls which lay undisturbed in the dirt. True to his word, the young lad had drawn another figure next to the dragon complete with lines either side to represent elven pointed ears.

Staring at the scrawl with an intentness it did not truly deserve, he felt the familiar surge of resentful misery wash over him and cleanse the fog from his mind. He waited another few moments while he gained control over his breathing and limbs before taking a deliberate step over the drawing. Heading away from the brothel and further into the winding streets of the city, Torih let himself become lost to the shadows.

Cocooned in the deepest depth of the night and with sleep disturbed from a day of dozing, Elissa contented herself with thumbing over the tattered piece of vellum as the despair was pushed a little further back from her mind. True, the news contained within it was weeks old and it was possible that Fergus had fallen prey to illness or bandits or the Horde. But if not, if somehow he had indeed survived Ostagar and all that could have threatened him since, then he was due in the city any day. And without the screech of a demon to haunt her every thought and darken every happiness, she could feel the smallest of hopes flitting around the cavernous space in her chest at the thought.

Beside her the sound of Alistair beginning to groan while his limbs jerked as a prelude to thrashing disturbed her from her thoughts. A nightmare. Elissa frowned and discarded the vellum back onto the bedside table as she fumbled to rest a protective hand against his shoulder. Her touch halted his movement but the anxiety which flooded his body seeped through her hand and travelled up her arm causing her own muscles to flex in empathy.

Turning her focus inward with some trepidation, Elissa prodded at the back of her mind for a darker reason as to why he was experiencing nightmares. But there was nothing. Whatever Alistair was dreaming, it was a manifestation of his own fears and not an intrusion of the darkspawn.

Grazing her hand up from his shoulder, her fingers trailed through his hair in what had become a habitual movement in the last few months. Plagued by her own nightmares and too afraid to close her eyes, she had busied herself with ensuring that Alistair had at least found some respite in his sleep. Frequent practice had soon produced a gesture that was as gentle as it had been when her mother had done the same with her when she had been frightened as a child and Elissa was soon rewarded with a shuddering sigh. The tactile reassurance caused his breathing to return to a steadier rhythm and the apprehension ebbed from his body.

The knock which came at the door caused her to jump and threatened to undo all her good work as Alistair half wakened. Shrinking back from the unexpected noise, Elissa moved her hand back to his shoulder that was as much an attempt to settle him as it was to calm her own nerves. Holding her breath, she offered up a desperate prayer that whoever was there would go away.

A few moments passed that were just long enough to raise her hope that the Maker had answered her when the knock rapped against the door, sharper this time. Closer to consciousness, Alistair mumbled to himself and started to stir. Driven by a desire to prevent him from being woken, Elissa swallowed back her rising fear and forced herself to put feet to floor.

"Coming!" she called as loudly as she dared, darting a look towards Alistair. He muttered something before rolling onto his side and she waited until he stilled before standing up.

Mercifully, whoever was outside had heard her call and there were no further knocks. Pushing herself off the bed, she stumbled across the room in the gloom towards the door. She groped to find the handle and it was with a tremble that she cracked the door open only wide enough to peer out.

Relief flooded through her at the familiar sight of Zevran.

"Zev," she whispered, opening the door a fraction wider.

The elf had the sense to mimic her whispering tone although he was earnest in his request. "I must speak with Alistair."

The notion that she was being excluded stirred some vague sense of resentment within her and she frowned. Positioning herself more squarely in the doorway, she shook her head. "He's sleeping. Tomorrow, Zevran."

"Now."

Unaccustomed to being overruled, the sting of injured pride caused Elissa to straighten. Throwing a glance over her shoulder to confirm that Alistair still slept, she took a deep breath and held out a hand to Zevran.

Adjusting readily to the strange behaviour of his Warden, Zevran clasped it in a firm grip and she forced herself to step across the threshold of the room. Pulling the door to a soft close behind her, Elissa still clung to the handle as a last connection to the security the room offered. Experiencing the shaking which was transmitting from her hand to his, Zevran tightened his hold in silent encouragement.

A faltering smile rewarded his gesture followed by a long exhale. Elissa focused on his face while she struggled to regain some composure but when she finally did speak, her voice was steady. "What's going on?"

"I do not think Alistair would wish me..."

"He's sleeping, Zev. Either tell me or wait until tomorrow."

The elf took a moment to respond as though considering the options presented to him. Abruptly, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles. "I will wait."

Taken aback, Elissa made no protest as the elf released his grip from her and turned to walk away. Unable to find the courage to pry her other hand from the door handle, she was left to call after him in a desperate whisper. "Zev, wait! Zevran!"

Swivelling on the balls of his feet, the elf turned to face her although he continued to take small steps backwards as he moved further away from her.

"Do I need to know what's going on?" The question was formed from the nervous exhale of breath that rushed from her.

"Do you wish to?"

Summoning the last remnants of denial which had sustained her over the last year, Elissa chose to ignore the knowledge that she had only ever had a sliver of control over the events which surrounded her and it was unlikely she had even that much power now. She nodded.

"Then ask him," came the advice drifting through the darkness.

It was necessity.

The tinkling echo of the wooden chair scratching against the rough stone floor filled the study as Eamon pushed himself to his feet. A heavy tread marked his movement towards the door and out into the hall.

It had been a welcome sight to see the effect the threat from the Grey Wardens had on Alistair as he recounted their objection to his title. The rise and fall of his voice; the vehement shakes of his head; the repeated slams of his fist against the table. All tinged with a faint desperation which hinted at his realisation of the consequences if he did not fight against the short-sighted demands of his Order.

Navigating the gloom-filled halls of his own estate with a familiarity that contrasted with the slowness of his pace, Eamon permitted himself a heavy sigh.

Whatever else Bryce's girl had done, she had dragged the spirit of Maric from deep within the bowels of his youngest son. Eamon could only hope that it would be understood that what he had to do now was only a continuation of what the Hero had begun.

It was necessity.

Her own value to Ferelden was not in question. It was precisely that value which offered the solution to the deadlock which threatened everything now. Without her, there would have been no alternative to the tyranny of Loghain. And now she provided the means by which to escape the tyranny of his daughter as permitted by the actions of the Grey Wardens.

Coming to a halt in one of the many halls, Eamon studied the door in front of him. There were sounds of movement from behind and a thin strip of light escaped from beneath which confirmed that the Warden-Commander was still awake.

Raising his hand, he clenched it into a fist.

It was necessity, not betrayal.

The knock reverberated through his knuckles and echoed in the hall as though it were a knell.

What had been done to Connor was borne from necessity. And so was this.