Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age. If I did, polygamy mods would be part of the original game.

Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Eight: Interlude

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Denerim

It was never supposed to be this way.

Alone in the grand study of the Royal Palace, seated at a desk that had been made for a king, these were the words that cycled their way through the mind of Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren and now Regent of Ferelden. A title that left a bitter taste in his mouth, for it was one that he had been forced to claim for himself. A title born not out of desire, as so many of the nobles already clamored, but out of necessity.

He could blame no one for their suspicions regarding his rise to power. Had he been in their position, on the outside looking in, he would have done the same. The timing was simply too good. First, the fall of Highever Castle and the death of Bryce Cousland, leaving Loghain as the only Teyrn remaining in Ferelden unless Bryce's eldest proved alive – unlikely, as Fergus had last been seen leading a scouting mission into the Korcari Wilds. Without Teyrn Cousland to maintain the balance, Loghain was now literally the most powerful man in the country, second only to King and Queen.

Then, not two weeks after, the Battle of Ostagar. That fated battle, his inability to convince the king to fall back, to pull back from the Wilds until they could amass a stronger force. More than half the forces of the banns and arls had yet to arrive, and their reports regarding the darkspawn had shown increasing numbers with each day. For a time it had seemed that perhaps, just perhaps, he was getting through to the young king.

And then Duncan had arrived, bringing with him his latest recruit, and any of Loghain's influence had been shattered. Cailan had seen the Warden-Commander's arrival like a sign from the Maker, and no force in Thedas would have been enough to draw him back from the field now. Cailan wanted his glory; Cailan wanted his legends. Cailan wanted to carve a place for himself in the history books, next to his father, his grandmother, and Loghain himself.

It had never occurred to the boy that legends only became legends when they were not seeking such.

And in the end, it had been glory and legends that had been the death of Cailan.

Loghain's shoulders felt impossibly heavy, and he reached across the desk to seize the half-filled glass, bringing it to his lips and downing the remaining contents in one gulp. He wasn't a heavy drinker under normal standards – he disliked the loss of control – but in the past weeks he found that the weight only seemed to lift when the wine slid its way down his throat and settled into his stomach.

Even then, however, his willpower overrode all other instincts, and he only permitted himself the periodic indulgence. He had far too much to do to afford to lose control of his senses know; he'd seen far too many good men destroyed by such a loss. He would not be one of them, no matter how strong the temptation was. He was not some green soldier facing the aftermath of his first battle.

He'd already failed Maric once; he refused to do it twice.

A sharp knock on the closed door roused Loghain from his thoughts, and he rose to his feet. "Enter," he said briskly.

A guard he had not seen before stepped into the room and executed a sharp bow, holding a rolled scroll of parchment in her hand. "Your Grace," she said respectfully, "a report has just arrived from the men stationed in Lothering."

"Lothering?" Loghain repeated with a frown. He extended his arm, taking the parchment from the soldier and unraveling it to read the contents.

His back stiffened, and he looked at the soldier. "This has been validated?"

"A report from a templar by the name of Ser Bryant indicates that the Grey Warden had contact with the Revered Mother before departing Lothering, Your Grace," the soldier replied. "Neither can be confirmed with certainty, but both accounts match."

Loghain's grip tightened on the scroll, crinkling the parchment and darkening his expression. "Thank you," he said crisply. "Dismissed."

He turned his back to the soldier before she departed, his eyes going back to the scroll in front of him. Dimly the click of the door registered; he paid it no notice.

So the Grey Wardens had survived Ostagar. Howe had thought him overly cautious in his assumption that not all of the Wardens had perished on the battlefield, but Loghain knew all too well the resilience of their Order. And he knew that those two who had not been with Cailan and Duncan had been alive at least up until he'd sounded his retreat; he'd seen the beacon light up with his own eyes.

His jaw clenched. So the Wardens knew what had happened, did they? No doubt they were heading north to Denerim, intending to spread their own interpretation of what had taken place. And with the growing dissent among the nobility, there was a good chance they'd find someone willing to listen to their words. The only blessing was that they were unlikely to find any aid in Redcliffe; the last report out of the village had been a confirmation that Eamon had indeed taken ill and lay on the edge of his death. Without Eamon the bannorn were unlikely to unite and rise against him, though if Eamon were somehow able to recover that could change in a heartbeat. Fortuitous, then, that Loghain had taken the necessary steps to sway the odds to his favor.

His gut twisted. The day he'd have to resort to such tactics against Rowan's own brother…

"Unsettling, isn't it?"

Loghain whirled around, his eyes wide with shock as he realized that, despite the closing of the door, the soldier who had delivered the message had not left the room. She stood there now, looking at him with a peculiar mixture of contempt, amusement, and condescension. At the sight of his surprise, a slow smile curled upon her face.

"What are you doing in here?" Loghain demanded, anger welling up from within. "Who are you?"

"Always with the same questions – can no one ever think for themselves?" The soldier shook her head. "You will understand in time. Or perhaps you won't. Whether you do or not remains entirely up to you."

Something about the riddling speech tickled the back of Loghain's mind, and he forced himself to quell his anger before it could boil over, having the sense that losing his temper would not be the wisest course of action. "I want an answer," Loghain said, voice hard. "Now."

"As sharp-edged as ever, I see. Perhaps less has changed in these past years than I anticipated." The women looked at him steadily.

Her eyes were pure gold, and Loghain grew still.

It had been over thirty years since he had last seen those eyes, but there was no mistaking them. He hadn't trusted them then; he did not trust them now.

"Impossible," he hissed. "You can't be…"

She threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing throughout the enclosed space. "Oh, but I am indeed. I suppose it would be easier to believe if I looked like myself. But when does anyone look like their true selves, I wonder? Is who we are how we see ourselves, or is it how others perceive us? Appearance is simply another mask to slip behind, and masks can always be removed."

"Have you nothing better to do with your time than spout riddles, witch?" Loghain snapped, his anger nearing its breaking point.

The Witch of the Wilds tsk'd at him, crossing her arms over her chest and somehow managing to look down at him even though he was a good foot taller than her current form. The fact that she had been able to twist her shape into another's unsettled the Teyrn, but he had long since decided to never underestimate the extent of Flemeth's abilities.

"I spout riddles specifically because of Time," Flemeth replied shrewdly. Her eyes slid over his armor-clad form critically. "There is never just one path. There is only the continuation of a straight line until one reaches another crossroads. Another crossroad has passed for you, I know; I wonder how long it will take you to reach the next."

"Another one of your prophecies?" Loghain scoffed. "I have no time for idle flights of fancy, witch. Be thankful I do not summon the templars."

His statement seemed to humor Flemeth, no doubt because she knew the threat was as empty as he did. Summoning the templars against the Witch of the Wilds, if she actually still remained when they arrived, would simply result in getting a lot of men killed. Those who knew of Flemeth's existence generally left her alone – those that lived, at least. Those foolish enough to take her on…

Well, they were no longer among the living, were they?

Flemeth looked at him squarely, her golden eyes seeming to glow. Candlelight reflection, Loghain hurried to assure himself. It fell flat, but as unnerving as he found those eyes to be he refused to look away from her gaze.

"I give you a prophecy and a warning, Loghain Mac Tir," she replied. "A choice to be made, but not your own. Harbinger or Savior? Your life is held in the hands of another; will it be mercy you face, or vengeance?" She smiled slowly, a secretive smile that sent a chill racing down his spine. "I wonder…"

"Enough!" Loghain slammed his hands down upon the desk, voice echoing in the room. "I'll not listen to your taunts, witch!"

She smiled; somehow that only made Loghain angrier. "I have said what I came to say, Ser Regent." The touch of mockery at the title did not go unnoticed. "And as you command, I shall now take my leave." Flemeth stepped back, and paused.

"Beware of snakes in your midst. You never know where or when they will strike you down."

Then there was a flash of brilliant white light, so bright that Loghain was forced to turn his head sharply and bring his hand to cover his eyes. When it faded, he lowered his arm and straightened up, staring at the spot where Flemeth had been standing just moments before. There was nothing but empty floor space now, not a single clue as to where she had gone.

Frustrated and feeling the first vestiges of a headache coming on, Loghain sank back down into his chair and pressed his hand to his temple.

His eyes landed on the scrolled message again, the parchment having rolled itself backwards so that the words stared mockingly up at him. He clenched his jaw. He didn't have time to deal with the ramblings of an old woman, mage or no. There were other, more pressing issues that he had to handle first.

He reached to pour himself another glass of wine and ignored the trembling of his hand.

Nevarra City

He moved as silent as the night, striding through the darkened streets of Nevarra's capital, not even the hooded cloak he wore making a sound as it flowed with his movements. It had been three weeks since he'd come to this place, and until now he'd been left relatively alone.

He fully expected this brief respite to not last much longer. His pursuers were relentless – and no matter how many he killed, it always failed to dissuade the ones who came next. It was amazingly sad, really, how so many people appeared to value coin over their very lives.

Lives that they were free to do with as they saw fit. Lives that they spent subjugating those they considered inferior, without a care for what they ruined.

Beneath the folds of his cloak he clenched his hand into a fist, the metal-tipped claw of his gauntlet digging into his palm.

He felt no remorse for what he was about to do. The men who had come for him sought to remove his freedom, and he would face whatever obstacle he must in order to keep it.

They were behind him, now. Two, perhaps three. He felt a rush of contempt. These scum thought that three would be enough to handle him? The last group had boasted three times that, and he'd felled them all within moments. There were many uncertainties in his life, but his confidence in his abilities was not one of them. Three bounty hunters were nothing compared to what he had endured under the hand of Danarius.

Abruptly he turned and ducked into an alley, vanishing from sight.

Footsteps pounded cobblestoned streets as his three pursuers broke from their concealment to rush the alley. They knew that if their quarry managed to duck them they'd have a devil of a time relocating him – for someone who stood out as much as he did, it was astounding how he managed to constantly give the bounty hunters who plagued him the slip. For some, it was only the reward promised for his return that kept them in the game.

For others it was the glory – the elf had garnered a reputation, and whoever it was who managed to bring him in would have his own made.

The complication was, of course, bringing him in.

The alley was empty.

"Where is he?" one of the men asked in a hushed whisper, peering into the shadowed darkness. There was just enough light that he could see the end of this particular passage – it ended in a dead end rather than pass straight through. Of the elf there was no trace.

"Shut up!" the man to his right. "Before you give us away!"

To his left there was a sudden grunt, the heavy thud of a body hitting ground following a second later. He jerked to the side, eyes sweeping in the murky darkness in search of his companion. He saw the dark shape crumpled and unmoving against a nearby wall. No blood. No sign of fight.

"Rolf," he hissed to the third on his right, "on your guard. Ezras is down."

There was no response, and he turned. "Rolf…!"

No one stood next to him.

The rogue tensed, raising his daggers and turning in a slow circle as he tried to gauge his surroundings, tried to discern the location of his opponent. He fought to maintain his calm, knowing that the instant he lost it would be the end of him.

He didn't sense the presence coming up behind him as he completed his turn. It was suddenly just there. He jerked, whirling around and flashing his daggers at the elf, the blades narrowing missing the form-fitting chestpiece that he wore. For the briefest moment the gesture left the rogue's arms extended to the side, leaving his own chest fully exposed.

He didn't feel the impact of the hand connecting with his chest. He didn't realize that the hand had passed through the leather armor until he felt a searing pain in his skin, a burning sensation that traveled through every nerve ending within his body. His eyes bulged as he struggled to scream, unable to draw in even enough air for that simple act.

The hunter stared into the cold fury of the face before him and felt a vice-like grip close around his heart, his chest constricting in pain, choking sounds ripping from his throat as blood seeped out from between his lips. His heart fluttered weakly, desperate to rid itself of the tightening hold around it, and the hunter thought dimly that anyone who attempted to tame and subdue this monster had to be a madman.

The hand clenched tight around his heart.

Withdrawing his arm, the elf allowed the hunter's lifeless body to drop to the ground, looking down at him with a lip curled in disgust. His arm was spotless, not a trace of blood on it, and none of the men bore an injury that spoke of how they died.

And yet Danarius would hear of it; Danarius would know. Nevarra City was no longer safe.

"Damn them all to hell," he said harshly, giving the bodies one more glare before moving towards the entrance to the alley.

"No matter how many of them you kill, they'll just keep coming for you."

He froze, staring incredulously at the young girl perched on a milk crate directly opposite the alleyway. Her legs were too short to touch the ground, and she swung them idly, a stuffed bear clasped tightly in her arms. Her dark hair was pulled up into pigtails, and she wore a spotless, frilled white dress commonly found on the children of nobility. Utterly nonthreatening – if not for the fact that it was long past the midnight hour, and no noble child would be sitting there so calmly after witnessing the deaths of three men.

The little girl smiled at him as he stared at her. "Oh, yes," she said in a tone that sounded far too mature for the high-pitched voice that came out of her mouth. "You'll run and run and run, but you'll never outrun them. They will always be one, two, three steps behind you. He doesn't care about costs. He'll keep throwing them at you, fresh body after fresh body, until you're worn and weary and unable to resist. And that's when he'll come himself, when you're at your most vulnerable."

"I do not know what you're talking about." The elf was guarded. Cautious. Each one of his instincts was flaring up within him, but he could not reconcile the sense of danger with the delicate, doll-like child before him.

"Don't you? Are you a fool, then, like all the rest?" She tilted her head up, black curls falling away from her face to reveal brilliant, golden eyes. "No, not a fool. Damaged, broken, scarred inside. Broken things cannot repair themselves; they need someone to bind them together. Make them whole, as it were."

She fixed those chilling eyes on his own, and he found himself frozen, unable to look away. "Your chains are heavy, little wolf. Your only chance of unlocking them is to find the key."

He started at the nickname, bristling and tensing at her words. "I am free," he growled. "My chains no longer bind me."

The girl smiled a smile too mature, to knowing. "Ah, but are you truly? You live each day in fear, always looking over your shoulder, always defending from pursuit. You move from place to place, never settling. Never at peace. The Free Marches, by the way."

"What?" He clenched his fists, muscles in his arm tightening as though preparing to strike, and yet still he did not move.

She slipped off of the milk crate, bounding lightly when her feet touched the ground. "You seek to leave Nevarra. It is a good idea. But as you are likewise attempting to put as much distance between yourself and the Imperium as you can, you are limited in your destinations. The Free Marches, perhaps. Or Ferelden. I would not recommend Ferelden, little wolf. Not now. Perhaps not ever, but that is not for me to decide. And so I suggest the Free Marches."

"And why should I take any suggestion of yours seriously?" he growled. For the briefest moment the markings scrawled over his skin shone with ethereal light, the burn of lyrium sparking within him.

She gave him a look so severe it halted him before the tattoos had a chance to reach their full, deadly luminescence. "You need not take anything I say seriously," she said gravely, "but I have no desire to see you dead. Not yet. My patience is not eternal.

"I offer you a choice, little wolf. Take what you will of it. One will only enslave you further; the other will free you from your bonds."

"And I don't suppose you'll tell me which is which?" came the acerbic reply.

"It wouldn't be much of a choice if I did, now would it?" The girl tucked her hands behind her back, for a moment looking more in line with her supposed age, but he was willing to bet that that 'age' was no more the truth than he was a magister. She gave him an innocent smile that chilled him thoroughly. "Best make your mind up soon, lest you find yourself with neither.

"And now I must be on my way – so many appointments to make and too much time to make them in." She laughed; not a child's laugh, but that of a much older woman, and the lyrium markings were flaring up again in alarm. The girl raised her arms above her head and brought them together with flourish, disappearing in a brilliant flash of light that left the elf staggering back, his entire body momentarily blue from the shockwave of powerful magic that had just been expended around him.

He slowly shook his head to clear it. He didn't bother looking around - he'd seen enough magic in his lifetime to know when a spell was being cast. The girl was gone, and he was alone.

Alone with only his thoughts. Only his fears.

It was several hours later when, as the first dawn's light broke through the clouds, when the elf was seen departing the city with a merchant's caravan. Heading east.

Kinloch Hold

It was impossible to know what time it was. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months – they all bled seamlessly into each other in the darkness, without even a window to give a hint as to the sun's position in the sky. Only a single candle, replaced when the wick became low, offered any amount of light in the enclosed room.

Room – a laugh. Four walls and a sealed door, enchantments woven into the metal to prevent the door from opening with anything but a key. This was no room; it was a cell. Just as Kinloch Hold was no safe haven for mages; it was a prison. A glorified prison, but a prison nonetheless. So long as the mages remained in line, did as the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander instructed, and played the part of the good little mouse, then most of them could live their lives out in the Circle with little concern.

It was a system that worked. Until it didn't.

The figure in the cell, sitting on a single low cot in the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, was a perfect example of what happened when the Chantry's system failed to adequately control their mages.

It was not his first time being forced into this solitary, contained space, but he suspected that it would be his last. One year. One year they had sentenced him to, longer than any other term he'd served yet. The first time had only been three days. Second, a week. Each one longer and longer – one month, three, six, until now.

He wasn't an idiot; he was one of the youngest mages in the Circle to pass his Harrowing, and he'd done it with flying colors. He'd been training in the healing arts for years – a mage couldn't master that and not have some brains in their head, not and be effective at what they did. He'd heard the whispers among the apprentices when he'd first been Harrowed; some called him a prodigy for advancing so fast, others mutters less than savory things that his reputation didn't help against. He suspected, of course, that the only reason the Knight-Commander and the First-Enchanter had agreed to Harrow him so young had been in hopes that if he was a full-fledged mage and granted more freedom within the Tower, he'd be less likely to want freedom without it.

One month after his Harrowing, he'd made his fourth escape attempt.

That was when they'd started stepping up his punishments, increasing his time in solitary. Trying to break him. Each time they failed, and he only became more determined to grasp the freedom that he'd tasted. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life locked away in a tower, punished for something someone had done over a thousand years ago.

He didn't know how far into his current sentence he was. He might have months to go; he might have days. He couldn't keep track of hours, only rotations. The templar guard assigned to solitary rotated every six hours. Impossible to know which guard would be there next. He'd tracked the timing for the first month, but even that had grown tiresome after awhile. It didn't matter how long it was. All the rotations signified was the moment when his heart would leap into his throat and his body would tense. Sometimes he'd relax upon seeing who it was.

Other times, he'd close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else.

The main door to the dungeon opened, a heavy, creaking sound that echoed in the otherwise empty confinement area. He heard the heavy footfalls of templar armor, coming closer and closer to his cell. He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to stabilize, his breathing to remain even.

The footsteps stopped outside the door – but it did not open.

Slowly the tension drained out of his muscles and he unfolded himself, his eyes remaining on the closed door. When it still didn't open, he swung his legs around over the side of the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress, careful not to make a sound as he pushed himself to his feet.

"You may be able to get a spell off the moment this door opens," came an unfamiliar voice from outside the cell, "but I guarantee you that it will be ineffective."

The mage stilled. He knew the voices of every templar who took guard duty in solitary, and this voice was unknown to him. And the matter-of-fact way in which she pinpointed his intention…

"You need not speak. I'm perfectly capable of speaking for the both of us. Some say too capable."

"Who are you?" he asked in a low voice. She shouldn't have been able to hear him through the metal of the door.

She responded as if he were standing beside her.

"I am many things, and yet none of them. I know many things, and yet I know nothing. I know you. A bird trapped within a gilded cage, unable to spread your wings lest they be clipped. You flee and fly, and they drag you back and throw the latch."

He balled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. She was speaking the words that he himself had thought so many times; thought and shared with no one.

"You keep all at a distance, eluding attachments, avoiding connections, never knowing when your next opportunity for flight will arise. But so long as they have your leash, you will never escape, and you know this. Every time you leave, you know that you will be back.

"Their patience is stretched thin; they do not like dissention. You have pushed your limits. This time is your last, young mage. You will be either free or eternally trapped within your own mind. You stand at a crossroads, paths laid out before you, and yet you remain unable to choose, unable to commit."

He wrapped his arms around himself, fingers clutching at the fabric of his sleeves, shivering at the uninhibited way that the voice dredged up the thoughts that lay deep within his mind. He didn't want them to be true. He wanted freedom; he craved it, yearned for it, desired it more than anything. To be able to wake up with the sun on his face was his greatest longing.

"So then why do you keep letting them bring you back?"

What choice did he have? The Chantry possessed his phylactery. So long as they had that small vial of blood, they would be able to follow his every movement. And he had about as much chance of getting his hands on that as he had of becoming the Empress of Orlais. The only way to stay free was to constantly move, and yet he could never move fast or far enough because they caught up to him. He didn't let them bring him back, but to struggle further when they found him was suicide.

"And will you sit idly by when they choose to finally make you Tranquil?"

"Stop it!" he cried, his voice breaking the silence of his cell. "Who are you? What do you want?" With rising panic he wondered if this was the start of it, the beginning of insanity. Was he finally, at last, breaking under the pressure of confinement, the pain of abuse? Had the endless days and nights taken their toll on his psyche?

"The true question is not what I want, mage, but rather what you want. You will have one more opportunity. One more chance. Time it well. I would give a word to the wise, but then, there are none of those here. Instead I give a warning. Seize your moment, mageling, but be careful to not be swept away lest you find yourself drowning."

He heard the shifting of feet, the sound of steps beginning to move away from the door, and he was moving before he fully realized it, palms pressing against the cold metal. "Wait!" he cried. "Don't…you can't just leave me in here! Not after that!"

His answer was a bout of laughter, a loud cackle that cut him off before he could continue his pleas. "You'll get your chance soon enough, mageling," the voice said with another chuckle. "But there is one thing you must do before then."

"What?" he asked, resting his forehead against the metal. He could feel the nullification magic moving through the door; they made his skin hum. "What is it? I'll do anything."

The reply was an almost inaudible whisper.

"Survive."

Several floors above, the screaming began.

Author's Notes: I've decided to include my notes down here at the end of the chapters from now on, basically so that I can ramble as much as I want to without stopping anyone from reading the chapter (and so I can occasionally comment on the chapter without spoiling it). I want to apologize for this chapter taking so long - I was sick last week with a nasty head cold, and it pretty much screwed up my writing schedule. Hopefully I can get myself back on track now. Thanks to my beta, Teakwood, and to Faermage-KH Junkie again for catching typos in the last chapter that should not have been there.

As always, I enjoy feedback, both compliments and criticism!