Spot the Spoiler: there's a minor spoiler for Early Days in this chapter. Bonus points if you spot it!

As it turned out—Torih swiftly discovered—'clothes' had been somewhat of an exaggeration. Argarth had sent Ithyal to summon Torih in order that the elf might examine the corpse, but the experienced Commander had not intended that the message be conveyed to the other Wardens with such urgency. The darkspawn, a Hurlock from the looks of it, looked to be better equipped than might have been expected and its armour appeared to be fitted in a way that was somewhat remarkable given that such items were scavenged, but for all said and done, it remained unmistakeable as a darkspawn. A darkspawn with evidence of a greater intelligence than might have been expected, but a darkspawn nonetheless.

That, at least, had been the conclusion of the hurried conversation between the two Commanders. Both were mindful of the inexperienced Warden at their side, that Cousland and Gethin were elsewhere with their patrol, and that Korgik was alone in the inn. Even so, Argarth appeared unable to drag his eyes from the creature and his usual brisk manner was replaced with a distracted air.

On his own initiative, Damon stepped forward—retching a little as he neared the putrid corpse—and made to roll it back down the river bank and into the fast flowing water.

"No," Argarth intervened, holding his hand up in signal that Damon stop. "It must be burned, otherwise the taint will continue to contaminate the water."

"Burned?" the Second repeated, breathing through his mouth as he looked between his Commander and the corpse in disbelief. The bloated body oozed with more than simply water and it seemed impossible that flames could be encouraged to scorch the taint from its sodden flesh.

"Return to the village and gather kindling. Fetch a cart or some such if you can. We will require enough to surround the body in order to ensure it may be fit to be placed on a pyre proper tomorrow."

The Second hesitated a moment, looking between his Commander and the corpse in disbelief. So much effort for one corpse, but seeing that Argarth remained steadfast, and was in fact eyeing the man with a growing irritation, Damon resignedly squared his shoulders and bowed his head in acknowledgement of the order.

Argarth relaxed his stance and glanced across to Ithyal. "You will assist him."

"Yes, Commander," the young Warden responded at once, before looking to Damon for further instruction.

Damon grunted something in Orlesian and Ithyal nodded. He fell into step with the other man as the pair retraced their steps towards the abandoned village, the flickering light from the torch which Damon held helping Torih to track their progress in the dank gloom of the night.

The elf waited, his gaze still focused on the torch, expecting Argarth to begin walking back to the village. When the dwarf made no movement, Torih glanced towards his companion with a coked eyebrow, remarking glibly. "Surely Commanders are not expected to guard corpses? Don't we have junior Wardens for that?"

The Orlesian Commander barked a short laugh, but the sound was hollow and in the stark glow of the fire torch, Torih saw the expressionless mask which Argarth had maintained in the presence of Damon and Ithyal slip. With a heavy sigh, the dwarf at last confided in his old comrade. "We have fought many darkspawn, both separately and side by side. Do you recall, in all those creatures, any which were equipped as that one?"

"An oddity, Commander. Nothing more."

"The same could be said of Cousland's survival," the dwarf observed dryly.

The mere mention of her name could sour his mood, and Torih felt his lip curl accordingly. "Do you believe she may have further knowledge of this?"

Argarth lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "We shall discover the answer presently."

"But you suspect it might be so?"

"All I am certain of is that the discrepancies to Cousland's tale are no longer all that is unexplained here, Torih." The dwarf fixed his attention on the two men in the distance. It was not far to the village, but the darkness and lack of defined path was slowing their movement. "I have heard tale of such creatures as this one, but nothing officially."

The elven Commander offered no acknowledgement. He was unwilling to pander to the possibility of truth in the gossip and rumour which could be heard in any stronghold where Grey Wardens gathered. Throughout his time in the Order, he had heard the majority—that there was a last hatch of Griffon eggs which were magically kept in stasis for a time when need was greatest, that there had been a female Warden who had conceived and supposedly been healed of the taint, that the Order was in fact controlled by the Chantry who considered it an extension of their Templar Order. Whenever evidence for such things had been demanded, nothing substantial could be presented.

"Of course, this case does not present exactly as the details in those reports," the dwarf continued, his voice recovering some of his authority. "Perhaps there is no connection."

An ingrained sense of obligation forced Torih to clear his throat. "Connection to what?"

"A creature known as the Architect."

Confident that Argarth was engrossed in staring after the other Wardens, Torih pacified his growing aggravation with a roll of his eyes. It was not a name he was familiar with, but it was no doubt yet another tall tale which had no basis in fact. Torih expected better of the dwarf, truth be told.

Shifting his feet, Argarth mused out loud. "It has been some years since the Architect has reportedly been sighted, of course."

Torih remained obstinately silent. Indulging such fantastical musings was in neither of their interests.

"Rumour has it," Argarth continued casually, a dry chuckle rising from him as he spoke, "that another Theirin was involved with that incident. Like father, like son."

There was an audible crack as the elf snapped his head round to stare down at Argarth. "What?"

"I thought that might mend your attitude."

Torih winced. The elf observed the chain of command, took comfort from it, and yet it was difficult for him to square the respect he held for Argarth with the notion that the hardened battle warrior standing at his side believed in flights of fancy borne from boredom and drink. His folly, however; this detail was worthy of some consideration, regardless from where it had originated.

In a docile tone, he asked. "What was reported?"

Argarth treated the elf to a long hard stare which Torih had no trouble in interpreting. The dwarf was well accustomed to the disdain with which Torih greeted much of life, but he had little patience when the elf made the mistake of directing that derision towards him. Considering the extent of the beating which Torih had received at the hands of the dwarf during his first months as a newly initiated recruit, it had been an easy lesson to learn—but one which had blurred somewhat over the years.

The elf lowered his head, staring down at his boots, as he made to appease the Commander. It was apparently sufficient, as Argarth gave a snort and continued with what he had to say.

"Written reports are few and far between, and I believe even those contain little about what truly occurred. Although it has been some time since I have acquainted myself with the accounts, I do remember that the presence of Maric was alluded to."

Frowning, Torih shot a sideways glance towards the dwarf. "Alluded?"

Argarth must have sensed that the elf only wished to query the detail, as opposed to dismissing it outright, because he nodded peaceably. "There may have been a time where it was widely acknowledged but I have yet to uncover such documents. However, given his decision to grant the Order permission to travel through these lands, it was an easy conclusion to reach. Why he became involved and to what extent, I am uncertain."

"It seems that there is much the Order does not know about."

"Certainly more than I had realised," the dwarven Commander conceded, catching the underlying meaning in Torih's words. "But we can only expect to understand that which we encounter."

"Yet it would appear that we cannot even understand that." His mouth twisted as the elf tasted the bitterness in the admission. "Cousland, the Archdemon, and now this. It belies all we know as an Order."

"By the Ancestors! One shemlen girl has shaken your entire faith in the Order?" Argarth spoke with thinly veiled contempt.

Mastering his reaction at the jibe, Torih settled for a determined shake of his head. Cousland herself was irrelevant; it was her survival which threatened the Order. If he failed to uncover an explanation for that then the consequences would reverberate throughout every enclave of the Grey Wardens throughout Thedas. He believed—no, knew—that Cousland had cheated her fate, that her survival was nothing but some trick or bargain—perhaps some dark magic, but certainly not the concocted excuse involving the healer—but that meant nothing if he could not unearth how. As Korgik observed, what Torih thought he knew amounted to nothing without evidence.

Swallowing, the elf at last trusted to his voice so that he could respond to the accusation from Argarth. "Her existence undermines us all. Her survival belittles what we are and what the Order represents." He paused, searching for the appropriate words—at times like these, he often wished he had the excuse that his language was that of the Elvhenan, but his knowledge of that tongue had long since been discarded.

He knew he did not want to romanticise the Order or the role of a Grey Warden, but to defeat such evil as an Archdemon and simply walk away... No matter the various creation myths surrounding the origins of the darkspawn, the utter devastation the creatures wrought was undeniable. The sacrifice required to end a Blight reflected that—should reflect that.

With a resigned sigh, Torih settled for the rhetorical. "What use are Grey Wardens, if there is no sacrifice required?"

"You make assumptions which only cloud your thinking further, Torih. Whatever else she may claim to be, Cousland is and remains a tainted being. She is a Grey Warden. We do not know how she survived, but we can take solace in that this matter is our concern alone. Rest assured, we will not be diminished by those outside of the Order."

"I hope you are correct, Commander."

Argarth gave a grunt, yet Torih sensed that the dwarf did not necessarily believe in his own assertions. It only served to antagonise Torih's agitation.

The clunk as Alistair turned the key in the lock to his private rooms was close to being the most beautiful sound he could ever remember hearing. With it, the tension across his shoulders eased to be swiftly replaced by bone tiredness. Maker, he could not remember being so exhausted for a long time.

Since he had arrived at the Palace, there had been a seemingly never ending parade of faces and introductions. Eamon had done well, at least as far as Alistair could tell. The kitchens were well stocked and fully staffed, guards seemed to be everywhere, and the household servants appeared efficient despite their small number. In short, he was content with his household—though considering that he had never had a household before, he doubted his opinion counted for very much.

His personal involvement was required in some matters, however. A Seneschal would need to be appointed, for starters. Given recent events, the Arl had evidently not seen it appropriate to overstretch his influence and instead Eamon had occupied himself with coordinating the majority of tasks on his own. That seemed reason enough to ensure that a decision was made within the next few days; it was not appropriate that Eamon should know all that was going on. Andraste save him, Alistair didn't know everything that was going on, why should anyone else?

Tomorrow, though; it could wait until tomorrow... after a long sleep.

Gathering the last of his energy, Alistair turned from the door and crossed the small reception room towards the door which led down a short hallway to his bedroom. The sight of a tattered pack propped against the back of one of the chairs drew his eye and despite his weariness, curiosity got the better of him.

Drawing nearer the pack, he recognised the strip of blue ribbon which Elissa had tied to one of the straps a few months ago. A gift from a merchant in Orzammar, if he remembered rightly. He did remember that Leliana had been involved, because her squeal of delight at the trinkets in front of her had sent a shudder through each of the companions. For someone who had chosen to gift the majority of her earthly belongings to the Chantry, Leliana was strangely obsessed with acquiring new possessions.

Pulling the ribbon through his fingers, the silk snagging against the rough calluses on his fingers, Alistair mused on how the pack had come to be delivered to his private rooms. He had noted that Riordan's swords had been transferred from his bedroom in the Guerrin estate to the study here in the Palace, although Wynne's staff had been mysteriously mislaid. No doubt Eamon had felt uneasy that the King of Ferelden should own a staff belonging to a Senior Enchanter of the Circle, especially given that said King had once been associated with a Witch of the Wilds. If he had more foresight, Alistair might have hidden it away. As it was, it was likely gone for good.

Exhaling through his nose, he smothered the flicker of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Recovering the staff had been how Sten had honoured Wynne, but Alistair would find his own way. Still, he regretted its loss.

He opened the pack and recoiled from the sight of the shrivelled tendril which rested near the top. Elfroot; or it had been. Elissa was forever plucking the herb from the ground, promising to make use of it and then a few days later, he would be looking through her pack, usually for a health potion, and his hand would brush against the plant, brown and withering. He would often sneak the herb out and take it to Wynne so that the mage could make proper use of it. He had a suspicion that if it had not been for his stealthy interference, the Dalish envoys would have often been left empty handed whenever the elven hunters reconvened with the small band of companions.

Steeling himself, he tugged at the vine and the blackened leaves crumbled at the slight touch, scattering fragments everywhere. He discarded it on the small side table.

With the elfroot removed, he spied a few scattered stones caught in the folds of the leather. He reached in and pried one of the stones out, the smooth surface informing him what it was even before he turned it over in his palm. As he ran his forefinger across the rune etched into the surface, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the rune stone immediately brought Sandal to mind. Maker, he hoped that the young dwarf and his father had succeeded in escaping. Bodahn had mentioned plans to leave Ferelden following the Landsmeet but he had not confided how or where. In the aftermath of Riordan's revelation and Elissa's departure, Alistair had forgotten about the two dwarves. His conscience twinged, yet he consoled himself with the knowledge that there was no one more resourceful than Bodahn. Wherever he and his son were, Alistair felt confident that they were thriving. He offered up a wish and a prayer that both were safe and well.

He set the stone down beside the elfroot and peered again into the pack, sighing as he did so. Such an odd collection. At the bottom of the pack, there were two crumpled pieces of vellum and a bundled rag which he imagined had once been an undershirt, although it was entirely possible that Elissa had simply seen it and decided it would be a good thing to have 'just in case'.

In spite of himself, Alistair began to laugh beneath his breath.

"You seem in good spirits, my friend. It is a welcome sight."

Starting at the unexpected sound, Alistair spun round, dropping the pack as he did so.

Zevran stood in the doorway to the bedroom, casually wiping his hands on a dampened cloth. The housemaids must have arranged to have water, soap and the likes brought to the room in anticipation of any requests. His gaze flickered between Alistair and the now discarded pack which lay on the floor.

"What are you doing here?" the man deflected the observation with an exaggerated indignation, heat building in his cheeks at having been caught reminiscing.

"I had thought you might wish to take possession of that which Elissa was required to leave behind."

The elf seemed entirely unperturbed. It was only when Zevran threw the cloth over the dead elfroot that Alistair noticed the dark smudges staining the fabric. There were only a select few ways through which the elf could have garnered so much grime, to the extent that some it lingered on his skin even after washing. Zevran, for some untold reason, had seen fit to gain entrance by less than conventional means.

One thing at a time though; Alistair had a feeling that his friend's explanation would require a conversation all of its own, and he was bemused to discover that Elissa had left anything behind that he had not known about.

"I didn't know Elissa had left these things."

"Nor did I. It was only because she instructed me to fetch her coin bag to provide equipment for the templars that I knew of it." Zevran eyed the man with a knowing look, softening his tone as he continued in anticipation of the man's next remark. "I have touched only that which I had permission to take, my friend."

Alistair forced himself to take a measured breath, before flashing a rueful grin at the elf. It was fortunate that Zevran had become accustomed to his bursts of jealousy, and could manage them reasonably well. There would have been a lot more bluster and bravado otherwise, and really there had always been too much to be done to waste time with such things.

"Thank you." He stooped down and rescued the pack from the floor, setting it on the side table before turning his back on the pack, content to wait until he was alone to continue looking through the rest of the contents. Squaring his shoulders in an effort to brace himself, Alistair fixed a hard look on his friend. "But I doubt you snuck in here just to give me a pack, Zev. So, I'll ask again: what are you doing here?"

The assassin gave a short laugh. "I am that obvious, hm? Very well; yes, there are some matters I wish to discuss with you."

Settling himself down on the settee at the side of the room, Alistair gestured that the elf should also make himself comfortable. Zevran waved away the offer of a seat, preferring to warm himself in front of the last glowing embers of the dying fire.

He first enquired how much Alistair knew of what had happened in the city that day. Alistair summarised the reports which Eamon had presented with him over the evening meal. It had made for a very dry meal, but it had prevented any awkward silence between the two men. Zevran confirmed the majority of the details, his knowledge gleaned from the gossip in the streets and taverns. He also remarked that he had personally witnessed the departure of Leliana and Oghren, in the company of the templars and mages, and that the Dalish had also left.

Alistair closed his eyes in a grimace. That, he had not been told. It was unsurprising that the movements of the Dalish had escaped the attention of the various messengers, but he had hoped to speak with Keeper Lanaya at least once more before she decided to leave.

With a shake of his head, Zevran reassured him that the Keeper did not seem offended and that she had expressed the hope that the friendship between Crown and Dalish would flourish. When Alistair pressed about the attendance of the Dalish at the coronation, Zevran could only shrug and suggested that Lanaya would likely send a delegate to test the waters.

Then, at last, Zevran acknowledged the real reason for his unorthodox visit.

"I had meant to speak with you before you left the Arl's estate, but I had other matters to attend to." Turning his back on the man, Zevran held his hands out over the embers, flexing his fingers as he did so and Alistair noticed fresh grazes across the elf's knuckles. "I do not believe it is prudent that you continue to publically associate with me."

Alistair remained silent, reading between the lines. He should have expected that the elf would wish to leave, but for some reason it had not entered into his head. Then again, he hadn't exactly been paying close attention to what was going on outside the walls of the Guerrin estate over the last few days.

"Where are you going?" he asked at last.

Zevran twisted round, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "I will remain here."

"But you just..."

Holding up a hand, the elf interrupted the man. "You misunderstand me, my friend. You will note I said publically. I have no intention of leaving Denerim for the moment." He paused and then let out an easy laugh. "Unless you wish to inform me otherwise, my King?"

Alistair cocked his head to one side, as though considering the options available, before heaving a sigh. "Oh, I suppose not." He grinned at the elf, before another thought struck him and caused his amusement to fade. "What do you plan to... Actually, you know what? Don't tell me. I don't want to know about something that I might feel obligated to interfere with."

"A wise decision," the elf observed, a mischievous glint in his eye. "But to the matter at hand, you must surely agree that an Antivan, a disgraced Crow—disgraced, I might add, because I failed to kill both the Hero and future King of Ferelden—and an elf do not make me a suitable ally within a royal court?"

"Zev," Alistair rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly feeling the world pressing down a little harder on his shoulders. "That's all well and good, but I need friends. I need people who knew me before. Who liked me before."

"I remain loyal to you, Alistair—and Elissa. We will meet and talk, and whatever assistance you might need of me I will freely give. But I will not be present within your court. As far as anyone will know, our association has come to a timely end." Zevran waved a casual hand about the room. "Do not fear. When your guards are capable of preventing me from accessing the Palace when-so-ever I choose, then I will consider my time within Ferelden to be at an end."

Alistair arched an eyebrow. He was pretty sure that an assassin claiming such ease of access into his most private rooms was something he should be concerned about, but in this instance, he chose to overlook it. Instead, he turned his attention to stifling the yawn which crept over him.

Badly, as it turned out. On spying the clumsy movement, Zevran suddenly bowed low and made his excuses. Dismissing Alistair's half-hearted protest with a roll of his eyes, the elf promised that he would visit again within a day or so and retreated to the door.

"Not out the window, Zev?"

The assassin laughed a little too freely, the previous glint sharpening into almost a leer. "Only when it concerns business, my friend. Sleep well."

"Uh..."

Before Alistair could summon a more coherent response, the elf had already slipped from the room.

Easing himself from the settee, Alistair moved across the room and turned the key in the lock once more. He made to turn away from the door, but there was something about the way Zevran had seemed too easily amused by his remark which set his nerves on edge, and he reached out to test whether the handle moved as a last check. It resisted against the pressure when he pushed down on it, reassuring him that the door was in fact secure. Although if Zevran had been telling the truth, it wasn't through the door that the assassin would make his assault—not that Alistair feared an attempt on his life from the elf, but Zevran did like to emphasise his lessons. The last thing Alistair wanted to wake up to was the grinning face of the Antivan looming over him.

That image prompted another slight laugh from the man. Shaking his head in the hopes of ridding the thought from his head, Alistair returned to the pack lying on the chair. He swept the scattered remains of the elfroot into his hand with the ruined cloth and threw both onto the embers which temporary flared up. Pulling the pack open further, he rifled through the remainder of the contents and grasped at the rag. As his fingers brushed against the material, however, he discovered that something had been wrapped within its folds. Drawing the little bundle out, he discarded the pack to the side and unravelled the cloth from around its prize.

The rose which Varathorn had carved from ironbark. He studied it in disbelief for a few moments. It had been some time since he had seen it. In all honesty, he had thought Elissa had burned it sometime shortly after Redcliffe. Turning it over in his hands, he squinted a little and brought the carving closer to his face. There were blackened patches here and there; she had thrown it in the fire then, and regretted it almost at once. At least he presumed so otherwise the thing would have been a pile of cinders rather than simply charred. Perhaps it had been a good thing that the Mabari had destroyed the original rose he had picked in Lothering—that certainly wouldn't have survived her scorching temper, never mind the flames of the camp fire.

Alistair ran a thumb over one of the marks, trying to get a feel of the extent of the damage. Perhaps there was the possibility of the scorch marks being polished out somehow. He might have asked Lanaya if one of her Dalish craftsmen could repair the damage, but as the clan had already left then maybe one of the elven carpenters in the Alienage would have some knowledge of how to treat ironbark.

Except a visit to the Alienage would probably raise a few hackles along with a lot of eyebrows. He would need more of a legitimate reason to visit the Alienage than the simple request that a carving be repaired. Then again, the city elves had provided assistance during the battle of Denerim—a visit to express his gratitude, like he had already done with both the Dalish and dwarves, would not be so unexpected. Or would it? Alistair grimaced, rubbing at his eyes. He had never given stepping into the Alienage a second thought when he was a Warden—at least not how his presence within the boundaries might reflect on him.

Another task to defer until tomorrow. He would think of some reason or explanation though, of that he could be confident.

He set the rose down on the side table, ensuring it was in full view so that he would not forget about it in the morning. Fastening the pack closed, he looked about the room for somewhere to store it. His eye alighted on a small chest beneath the window and he secreted the pack inside, before finally taking himself to bed.

Holding her lighted torch aloft, Elissa tread through the debris littering one of the back streets of the desolate village. It was clear that the buildings which lined the West Road were abandoned, but she had a tentative hope that those villagers less able to flee might have sought refuge in the houses which were not immediately visible from the road. So far, it had been a fool's hope.

She hadn't expected that Torih would agree to her request to explore the remainder of the village, and she had been both grateful and suspicious when he had. His insistence that she be accompanied was hardly surprising and yet Gethin was hardly a dominant force—she would have expected Damon to be assigned as her escort, if not Torih himself. Gethin was, however, the one Grey Warden from whom she was yet to wrangle more than a grunt, and it seemed that Torih believed himself to have other matters to attend to other than monitoring her every move.

That was also surprising considering the way in which the two Commanders had conferred with one another shortly after Torih had interrupted the discussion between Ithyal and herself. The low tones the elf and dwarf had used had prevented her from overhearing the details of the conversation, but it had clearly given Torih pause for thought. Any suggestion that it was only her ego which prompted her to assert that she had been the topic of discussion had been quashed by the sidelong glances, accompanied with a variety of frowns and scowls, which Torih had directed towards her throughout the afternoon.

Something was afoot. She had gone wrong somewhere, she could sense it. Something she had said had piqued the elf's attention. Try as she might, however, she could not think what it could be. In her conversation with Ithyal, she had remained consistent to the core details of events. So long as she remained as consistent as possible with the base facts, she was less likely to reveal that which was best kept secret. Even so, it appeared that her method was not infallible.

A glint caught out of the corner of her eye roused Elissa from her thoughts. A last remaining shard of glass in an otherwise broken window pane reflected the light from her torch. Drawing nearer the window, she peered through but her torch barely penetrated the murkiness in the room.

Stepping away from the window, Elissa moved to the door and twisted at the round metal handle. It turned easily and she pushed against the door. It opened an inch or so before hitting against something. Removing her hand, she set her shoulder against the door and attempted to push whatever was blocking it out of the way. With a grating sound, the door gave another inch before stopping dead again.

Clicking her tongue in irritation, she set the torch in the outer sconce beside the door. She chose not to ponder why a back street building might need a sconce bolted onto the outer wall to advertise its location and instead, Elissa glanced round at Gethin with a clear gesture that he was to join her.

"Help me."

He stared past her, mouth pinched.

Assuming something had caught his attention, Elissa whirled round but the street behind them lay deserted.

She looked back to him. "Gethin. Come help me."

A scowl began to darken his expression and his eyes snapped to meets hers. "I don't answer to you."

Instinct drove her response. She tensed, drawing herself up before taking an intimidating step towards the man. For his part, Gethin mirrored her stance but went one move further and tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword.

It was that slight movement which in fact led to defusing the situation. Catching herself reaching for her own blades, Elissa experienced a moment of clarity in which the ridiculousness of them brawling with one another was laid out in full in her mind. They were reasonably well-matched; it would take a considerable amount of energy and effort to best the other if they were to actually come to blows. However, she very much doubted that Gethin would play fair—she certainly had no intention of doing so—and without a third party to serve as adjudicator, she could believe that the altercation between them would not end well.

For the briefest of moments, she considered charming him in a way similar to how she had won over her Blight companions. As quick as the thought came however, she rejected it. She had no desire to know any humanising detail of this man whose company she was forced to endure, and she had no intention of ever revealing any of her own secrets to him.

Stopping in her tracks, Elissa contented herself with levelling a cold glare at the dissenting Warden. There had been a time, not so long ago, where she would not have tolerated any question of her authority, but that had been with people she respected and to whom she wished to prove herself; Gethin was neither.

Still, his behaviour warranted some reaction.

"Do what you want," she shrugged. Apathy was as good a reaction as any for someone so inconsequential as this man.

Abandoning him to his one man mutiny, though she remained wary of any unscrupulous movement from her fellow Warden, Elissa turned back to the building and ran her eye over the frontage in search of another way in. Short of knocking through the remnants of the broken glass in the window, or clambering up onto the roof, she could see no clear and easy way of doing so.

Suppressing a sigh, she stepped back up to the window and called through, straining to hear any response no matter how faint. She called a few more times, concerned that her shouts might be considered a trap by any frightened people inside, but eventually she conceded defeat and took up her torch from the sconce. Without even a backward glance in the direction of her unwilling escort, she continued on her patrol.

The first night on the road was always the worst, Leliana had often found. The beginnings of any journey often prompted an apprehensive excitement within her, the thought of what might lie ahead becoming a tantalising terror, and the Bard was not surprised to find that she was unable to give herself up the Fade.

Throughout the day, the muddied thoroughfare had caused her a significant amount of jostling as she sat in the cart. It had been uncomfortable at first, but it did not cause her any extensive pain even though Liahn had been insistent on checking on her patient every few minutes. The air between Bard and mage remained strained given the terse discussions which had passed between them in Denerim, and the constant mollycoddling had only served to add to the tension.

Towards evening however, an hour or so before the Knight-Captain had called a halt, the ground had gradually become firmer. Hopefully it would continue to do so tomorrow and their progress towards Kinloch Hold would both become swifter and smoother. With no obvious cause for concern, Liahn had appeared to relax somewhat and her fussing eased into the usual restrained diligence with which she had always addressed her duty as a healer.

On reflection, Leliana concluded that the initial attitude of the templars might have added to the mage's consternation. At first, the templars had groused beneath their breath to one another at the extra burden of the hand cart and its passenger, but when they had stopping for the midday meal the additional supplies which had been packed onto the cart had been unearthed. Leliana recognised Zevran's influence in the goods—he had seen to his task of sourcing equipment and supplies with his usual eye for detail and ensured that there was sufficient reward for the required exertion from the templars. There had been no further complaints since then.

Now though, there were none of the distractions which had occupied her attention as the small group travelled along the road. Surrounded by the slumbering mages and off-duty templars, with Oghren banished some distance away as a result of his snoring—something she had become blissfully oblivious to over the months—Leliana found the means of occupying her mind somewhat limited.

Shifting a little on her bedroll, the Bard raised her eyes to the night sky. The Maker had a sense of humour, she was certain of it, for the only visible cluster of stars in an otherwise overcast sky was that of Alindra and her soldier.

Nevertheless, she began to recount the story in her head, feeling her body begin to relax and her mind drift as she indulged in the romanticism of the story.

"Halt!"

The order was called in a low voice but it was sufficient to jar her from her thoughts, and Leliana struggled up onto her elbows, craning her neck to see what had caught the attention of the two templars who had been assigned night watch. Surely one of the mages had not attempted to escape in so barefaced a manner?

No. The voices came again, still low but unhurried, as though the guards were satisfied that there was no threat. As an exchange flowed back and forth in hushed tones, Leliana surmised that it was another traveller. The conversation came to an end, and she heard the thud of footsteps nearing her as the stranger continued on past the templars and along the road. The Bard peered into the dimness of the night, the thought of sating her curiosity helping her to disregard the stabs of pain from the odd angle at which she sat.

A man—a time-served soldier from the looks of his armour—turned his head a fraction as he passed by, casting a glance over the small group. His gaze fell on Leliana and even though it was too dim to know if she had caught his eye, the man inclined his head towards her in polite acknowledgement before returning his eyes to the road, picking his way by the dim light of the few stars. There was a faint silhouette of a shield which he wore a shield on his back and as he trudged past, Leliana squinted in the vain hope of making out some worn heraldry embossed on the metal.

"Sister, are you unwell?"

Never taking her eyes from the stranger, she shook her head in response to the question from the concerned templar. "No, no, I am fine."

She had only made out that he was dark-haired with a beard, but even so the traveller seemed familiar to her in a way she could not understand.

"A soldier. Supposedly fought at Ostagar," the templar had followed the turn of her head and correctly assumed that the stranger had snared her attention. "So he says, anyhow. Certainly looks like he's seen some sights in his time, Maker help him."

Ostagar. She had not known anyone who had fought at Ostagar, save Elissa and Alistair. Over the course of their travels, they had met a great many different people; perhaps he was simply one of those nameless faces that had passed through her life without her fully acknowledging him. Still, he had struck her as being more familiar than that, that she had known him—or at least, someone like him.

"Thank you, Ser," she murmured. "And I appreciate your concern for me."

"You are welcome, Sister." The words floated through the air as the templar withdrew to resume his guard duties.

Leliana lay back on her bed roll and stared once more at Alindra's star. Her soldier had never returned from the wars, and she wondered if the soldier who had just passed had someone waiting to hear news of his survival. She hoped it was so; there were too many who did not.

Thanks to EasternViolet for her keen beta eye.