Disclaimer: I own neither Dragon Age nor Bioware, I'm merely hijacking their world in order to allow my muses to run wild.

Author's Notes: ::dredges herself up from the realm of Final Fantasy and posts the next chapter:: At least one good thing came out of my forced break from Final Fantasy XIII-2 (due to my first copy being defective and needing a replacement shipped to me). It allowed me to finish up this chapter and get it posted. As usual, thanks to Teakwood for taking a break from his Mass Effect marathon to go over this with me. And I want to thank all of you readers who have been sticking with me through this - I'm excited to say that Aracanum: Fatum is now in the top 5 of all the fanfics I've ever written in terms of hits, and given that the other four above if have all been out for *years*, that really thrills me. So thank you everyone for continuing to read through, and especially to those of you who have favorited, alerted, and reviewed. I really appreciate it!

Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Fifteen: Fragment

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The sky had grown gray and dismal as the rainclouds rolled in, blocking out the sun and dimming the valley until it seemed like the day was far further along than it was. It felt inevitable when the first drizzling drops fell, striking leather and chainmail, drawing irritated snorts from horses and muttered curses from anyone who lacked suitable covering.

When the first rumble of thunder echoed in the distant, it seemed an ominous warning.

"What is taking so long?" A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in the heavy armor of the warriors, the griffon heraldry of the Grey Wardens emblazoned on his cloak, complained as he came to stand alongside one of his companions. "The Commander has been at the border post for well over two hours now – we should have already been through the gates and halfway to Highever by now!"

"Given the history between Orlais and Ferelden, not to mention Ferelden and our Order, it is no small surprise that they would be hesitant to allow us passage," the dark-haired rogue the warrior was speaking to commented, silver-grey eyes focusing on the other man. "We must be patient, Francois."

The warrior gave a loud harrumph. "You'd think the Commander would be able to cut through the red tape given that the King of Ferelden himself personally requested our aid," Francois said. "And not only do we have a missive from him, but Duncan sent one as well." He frowned slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Something about this is making me uneasy, Riordan."

Riordan made a non-committal sound, but the truth of the matter was that he agreed with Francois. They should have been well on their way to the Highever teyrnir by this point, where they had expected to be re-supplied before swinging southwards towards Ostagar.

Was the Blight, perhaps, more widespread than they had feared? Duncan's report had stated that the horde had not yet breached the Korcari Wilds, but there were no rules that said the darkspawn could only rise up from one specific place. If there was one thing anyone could be certain of about a Blight, it was that there was no telling where and when that first wave would rise up to begin its assault upon the land. Not even Grey Wardens could accurately predict such things.

The crowd around them began to stir, and Riordan caught sight of the familiar blue and white mantle and hulking body of the Warden-Commander of Orlais. The Commander would never be called handsome, at least by Orlesian standards – the thick scar that ran from temple to jaw on the left side of his face enough to dismiss that possibility – but what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in sheer physical presence. He stood over six feet and his armor had to be custom-fitted to encompass his the size of his muscles, the massive battleaxe strapped to his back evident a testament to his strength. His appointment had been controversial when the previous Commander had gone to Orzammar for his Calling, but Riordan couldn't help but admire Warden-Commander Geraud Fournier.

He also couldn't help but pity whoever the Commander must have just been speaking with a few moments earlier, because from the dark anger that he saw in the Commander's eyes, they must have gotten an earful of his fury. When Fournier lost his temper, it was difficult to rein in on a good day.

This was not a good day.

"Francois. Riordan. Tore. Myrna." He barked the names out in quick succession, naming the four highest ranking Senior Wardens present with the force. Only Wardens, Riordan noted – none of the chevaliers that accompanied them.

The four Senior Wardens in question followed the Commander into the trees, a fair distance away so as to be out of earshot – again, Riordan saw that it was only out of earshot for the chevaliers, a Grey Warden could possibly still hear at this distance if they felt inclined to do so.

"Commander?" Tore, a surface-born dwarf who rarely spoke unless he deemed it important, inquired with a cautious look at the man. "Has something gone amiss in Ferelden?"

His response was an angry snort. "Amiss?" he asked bitingly. "Amiss seems far too simply a word for what's happened here. The Fereldens have refused us entry!"

"What?" Francois looked at Geraud incredulously, and Myrna let out a string of curses, Elvish and human both, that would have made a noble woman blush. Riordan, for his part, was simply stunned. "How can they…how can they refuse us entry? We were invited by the King himself! And there's a Blight!"

Geraud's expression suddenly filled with remorse, and it sent a chill down Riordan's spine. "The first Battle of Ostagar failed," he said quietly. "King Cailan lies dead upon the battlefield – more than half of Ferelden's army with him. The horde has spread, reports saying that they have reached as far north as Lothering."

Riordan could feel himself pale at the words. "Why is this the first we have heard of this?" he asked, his mind reeling. The king, dead? The darkspawn spreading? They had been hoping to contain the threat within the Wilds – the army at Ostagar was only to hold the line until their force arrived!

All at once Riordan realized why the chevaliers were being kept out of this discussion. The Grey Wardens were impartial to politics between nations, but the chevaliers were loyal to Orlais. It was common knowledge that there were many nobles who still coveted Ferelden – Maker, there were some nobles who still refused to see it as an independent nation. If word reached those nobles that Ferelden's king was no more…

"But if the situation is so dire," Myrna was asking, "why won't they let us pass through? If the darkspawn are spreading, they need us. Or do they think Duncan and his force is enough?"

The pain in Geraud's eyes made Riordan's heart almost stop.

"Duncan… all of the Ferelden Wardens…fell at Ostagar as well," Geraud said quietly.

Riordan felt as if someone had just driven a fist into his gut. The others all let out varying exclamations of shock, but he found himself unable to speak. Duncan? Dead? Although death on the battlefield was certainly not uncommon for Grey Wardens – nay, it was expected, especially in the face of a Blight – somehow Riordan had never imagined that Duncan would fall before him.

"It's never a question of whether or not we will meet our end," Tore said morbidly, "but rather one of when and how."

Myrna shot the dwarf a scathing look, glancing at Riordan out of the corner of her eye. "That is hardly helpful in this matter," she hissed, and though Tore glared at her in response, he did refrain from further comments.

Riordan took a deep breath. "If King Cailan is dead, Commander, and Duncan as well, who is it that is refusing our entry into Ferelden? The Queen?"

"Non," Geraud said with a shake of his head, "or rather, it is not technically the Queen. According to the border guard, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir as set himself as Regent in the wake of the King's death. I suspect the order to close the border came from him, and him alone."

Francois let out a low groan, pushing his hand through his thick mane of hair. "Then we're, to put it bluntly, screwed," he said. "Everyone knows how hostile Loghain Mac Tir is towards Orlais, and he has made it no secret that he holds no love for the Grey Wardens. There's no way we'll be able to get into Ferelden now… unless we want to force our way in."

"Why don't we?" Myrna asked with the pragmatism of elves. She propped a hand up on her hip. "We are Grey Wardens. They are suffering a Blight. Are we truly going to let one man dictate whether or not we do our duty?"

"It might sound simple enough, but we must not forget who this one man is," Geraud said tersely. "My own father was among the chevaliers that fought during the rebellion, and I've heard stories about Loghain Mac Tir that would make your hair stand on end. From my own understanding, the years since have not made him any softer. We must tread light on this one, Myrna. Until the archdemon shows himself and reveals this to be the Blight it truly is, simply storming the gates will not be in the Order's best interest – nor Ferelden's."

Riordan looked at Geraud, his gray eyes serious. "I agree with Myrna, though," he said. "We cannot simply stand aside. Our brothers and sisters gave their lives for Ferelden. To do nothing is to dishonor their sacrifice."

Geraud nodded – his Senior Wardens were telling him nothing that he wasn't already aware of. After a moment of thought, he looked to the three other Senior Wardens. "Spread yourselves out amongst the others and inform them – quietly – that we will begin laying camp. I will handle the chevaliers, but under no circumstances are they permitted to know what we have discussed here. Riordan, I would speak with you further."

Riordan saw the surprise in Francois and Myrna's eyes at that – Tore appeared indifferent – but they merely saluted and returned to the majority of the gathered army. Riordan remained, looking at Geraud with a touch of hesitance.

The Commander set his mouth in a tight line, pressing his lips together. "Riordan. I know it has been many years since you lived there last, but you were born in Highever, were you not?"

"Yes, Commander," Riordan nodded.

"Do you think you would be able to pass yourself through the country undetected, and make for Denerim? The more information we have, the stronger our position will be. I wish to ascertain the exact state of affairs in Ferelden – both in regards to the Blight, and in regards to Teyrn Loghain."

Riordan couldn't say that he was surprised. Although it was a matter of course that Grey Wardens did not entangle themselves in the politics of nations, the Wardens also did whatever they had to in order to protect the people of Thedas from the Blights. One way for another this Blight would expand, and eventually the Wardens would face it down – Riordan only hoped that they wouldn't lose the entire country of Ferelden in the process.

"I understand," he said with a nod. He wondered why Geraud had dismissed the others before speaking to him about this; it was hardly a task that needed to be kept from the other Senior Wardens.

He got his answer a moment later.

"I assume," Geraud said in a much lower voice, "that you kept continued correspondence with Duncan following his promotion to Warden-Commander?"

"I did, yes." A fresh pain struck Riordan, a reminder that there would be nothing more of that correspondence. No more veiled jokes and sarcasms, no more weary laments about choices made, no fresh dispenses of or requests for advice.

"Half a year ago you were also present for a Joining that Duncan performed in Ferelden, correct?"

Riordan's gaze snapped to Geraud's in instant attention. "I was."

The Commander crossed his arms over his chest and nodded once. "I see that I have your attention now," he said seriously. "Most of the new recruits from that Joining were sent to Jader off to Ansburg for their training, but Duncan kept one of them with him in Ferelden – he insisted upon it, in fact. Do you remember him?"

Riordan gave the barest of nods. "I do. I recall being surprised by Duncan's insistence that he stay within Ferelden, though there were hardly enough men to oversee extended training. I asked him why."

"And did he tell you?"

Riordan gave the briefest of hesitations before answering with another slow nod. "I had to push him a bit – at first he insisted it was because the lad's training with the Templars was enough to qualify him, but as he was not the first recruit we have ever appropriated from their Order I was not convinced that this was the only reason. He made me swear to keep the truth a secret, Commander. I hold such vows with utmost importance, even after death."

"And this is why I am giving you this task, Riordan, and no other." Geraud reached out and firmly grasped Riordan's arm. "We have only the word of the Teyrn that every Grey Warden perished at Ostagar, but I find it difficult to believe that Duncan would have risked both the King and this boy on the battlefield at once. Determine whether he lives or not, Riordan – that is the task I am putting on your shoulders."

The imploring look within his eyes was enough to reassure Riordan that no breach of trust need to be committed in this case, for Geraud already knew Duncan's close-kept secret. Still, this request bordered on surprise even more than the first. If Geraud had simply asked him to find out if any Wardens had survived he would have accepted it without question. That he was being so specific in his request, singling out this one young man above all others, spoke of something deeper in the works. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Commander," Riordan said quietly, "but are these your orders?"

Geraud narrowed his eyes and gazed at Riordan shrewdly – then released a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. "You always have been too perceptive for your own good, Riordan," he said. "That trait may well get you in trouble one of these days – or perhaps I should say more trouble." He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. "No. These orders come from someone with higher authority than I, and that is all I will say on the matter. Will you accept the task that I have given you, Senior Warden? I recognize that this is no small feat I ask of you."

Though Riordan paused before nodding his assent, it was merely ceremonial – he had already known from the moment the task had first been posed to him that he would be accepting it. How could he not? The first bit was common sense, and the second…he knew what the boy had meant to Duncan. He would honor his friend in this way, then, by protecting whatever legacy he may have left behind, if that legacy were truly alive. Which they didn't know for sure, and the odds were certainly stacked against it.

But then, didn't the very fact that any Warden lived proved that the odds could be beaten?

The future can never be fully determined. Those who claim certainty in knowing what it holds are liars and charlatans; the future is an ever-changing, malleable force that twists and twines its shape around the events of the past that makes up its base.

The art of predicting said future lies more in the ability to guess and plan according rather than the ability to know exactly what will come to be. One event can spawn endless possibilities; there are some who have a far greater ability to see each of these to the end of their road than others. In times of war, these men and women become the generals, the commanders, the ones ensconced in legend and chronicle.

Then there are those who remain within the shadows, working their predictions and their wills from behind the scenes. These are the ones who play their quiet games, deftly maneuvering their pawns and knights, arranging them just so in order to set up the perfect move. No matter how many centuries it takes to achieve.

For it is the past that shapes the future – and the past that can never truly be left behind.

The waters of Lake Calenhad were still. Still, unmoving, a quiet mirror reflecting back everything that the elvhen woman staring blankly into its depths did not want to see. Her own face, eyes rimmed red with tears, cheeks flushed with anger, robes torn and stained with substances best left unidentified. And behind her, the looming shadowed presence of Kinloch Hold itself. The Circle Tower.

Home. Prison. Tomb.

She could still hear the screams, both human and demonic, echoing in her ears. When she closed her eyes she could see the monstrous, twisted forms of people she had once known. Enchanters who had long-passed their Harrowing, apprentices who would never have the chance. A shudder rippled through her at the memory of fighting her way through once-familiar halls to the top of the tower.

Yllia had been unsurprised to find Uldred behind the uprising, and even less so to discover that he'd not only turned to blood magic, but had fully embraced it. It had been no act of desperation for him, not like it had been for Jowan, and he'd done it in the most common of ways – making a pact with a demon, unleashing horrors upon his fellow mages.

His death, she did not regret.

If she had only gotten there sooner…

"Yllia?"

Yllia's head snapped up, and she half-turned to look at the silver-haired woman approaching her. There was no mistaking the look of concern on Wynne's face, and Yllia felt a stab of guilt. After the confrontation at the top of the Tower she'd led the group in silence back down the levels, with Alistair helping the injured First Enchanter along with them, and had curtly informed Knight-Commander Greagoir that the issue had been dealt with and the Annulment would be unneeded.

Then she'd turned on her heel and stormed out of the Tower, leaving her companions standing with templars and mages alike and without a clue as to what to do next.

She was honestly surprised to find that it was Wynne who had come after her, though she felt a touch of relief that it hadn't been Alistair. The senior enchanter had proven invaluable as they'd fought their way through demons, abominations, and maleficar in their climb of the Tower, her prowess at healing (far better than Yllia's own) saving them from more than a few close calls. Yllia had always admired Wynne, and though she'd never had her for an instructor herself, she was glad to see that the older woman had survived Ostagar. She'd seen her there from a distance, though hadn't had the chance to speak with her before everything had gone wrong.

"Wynne," she said quietly, averting her eyes slightly. That gaze of Wynne's was too knowing, too certain. And too reflective of what Yllia herself was feeling. "Is everything all right?"

"I thought that was to be my question to ask," Wynne said with a level gaze. "Your companions are worried about you. That Alistair boy, and Leliana, both have been trying to figure out if they should come after you. Only your mabari's growls have kept them at bay – I do believe he's determined you needed time with your thoughts."

The thought of Rhys defending her privacy brought the barest lift to Yllia's lips, but it vanished within a fleet moment. "I'll have to thank him," she said quietly. "I'm just…not sure I'm ready to talk to either Alistair or Leliana. They'll want to ask how I feel…they'll want to try to get me to talk."

"And talking would be so bad?" Wynne came to stand beside the younger mage, her keen eyes upon her.

"I don't know." Yllia sighed, touching the tips of her fingers together in front of her. "Maybe not, but…they wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's like to hate and love a place and its people at the same time, to want to escape from them but to want them to stay safe. And I don't know how to talk to them about it so that they could understand."

"So you came out here in order to be alone with your thoughts," Wynne guessed.

Yllia nodded, eyes downcast. "I couldn't stay in there," she said quietly. "I just…I needed air. They were going to call for the Right of Annulment, Wynne. That's why I had to find First Enchanter Irving and stop Uldred. I couldn't let them do it. Not when there was a chance some could still be saved."

Sudden fear gripped her, and she looked at the older woman. "They are calling off the Right… aren't they? Knight-Commander Greagoir said that if I brought the First Enchanter to him, he promised…"

"He's retracting the request as we speak," Wynne said, cutting Yllia off in mid-ramble with a hand on her arm. "The Knight-Commander didn't want to call on the Right anymore than we did, Yllia – it was simply that it was the only option he had. Until you came along. You saved us all, Yllia Surana."

"Not all." Yllia looked at Wynne regretfully, thinking back to the ones that she hadn't been able to save, like Niall. She'd hardly known him in life, but he'd died doing everything he could to save the Circle. Yet she couldn't help but bitterly think that his sacrifice would be swept aside, just another mage dead at the hands of a demon.

"We honor the ones who are gone by living our lives to their fullest," Wynne said softly. "The dead cannot be brought back, but they can be remembered."

"I suppose so," Yllia said heavily. She reached up and pushed her hands through her hair – her careful ties had come out, allowing the strands to once again hang free, and for the first time ever she couldn't find it in her to care about fixing them. "Remembering…it doesn't seem like enough, does it?"

"It never does, no." Wynne shook her head in agreement and looked out over the water herself, and for a moment it seemed as if her thoughts were centered elsewhere, somewhere in the past rather than the present or future.

"Do they know yet how many survived?" Yllia asked quietly. "Who survived?"

"Several of the mages and templars managed to secure themselves in the supply tunnels," Wynne said, "but it will be awhile before they have a full headcount."

Yllia nodded slightly, and then her shoulders tensed. "What about the basement levels?" she asked quietly. "The…confinement cells?"

Emotion flickered in Wynne's eyes, and she released a soft sigh. "There's evidence that the demons managed to get into the basement before we were able to erect the barrier. The locking mechanisms were damaged…they're working to get it open, but until they do we won't know anything. And I imagine you don't have the time to wait, do you?"

Yllia closed her eyes, then shook her head. "No, we don't," she said. "We've lingered here too long already." She launched into a quickly edited version of the events in Redcliffe and what had brought them to the Circle in the first place, leaving out a couple details (such as Jowan's offer to use blood magic if the mages couldn't help). "I need to talk to the First Enchanter. We've already been delayed longer than I thought." And she'd forgotten about Connor. Maker, she'd been so wrapped up in her hurt and self-deprecation over the events at that Circle that she had momentarily forgotten about the young boy suffering at the possession of a demon. That thought alone made her ill. She turned on her heel to hurry back to the Tower.

Wynne's hand on her arm stayed her momentarily. "I'll speak with Irving and Greagoir," the Senior Enchanter said. "You gather your companions, and make preparations for our departure."

That brought Yllia up short, and she stared at the other woman. "Our?"

Wynne smiled, a gleam in her eye. "Unless, of course, you'd rather this old woman keep her mind to her own business and not offer her services to your cause?"

Disbelief shone in Yllia's expression. "You're hardly old, Wynne. It's just…you want to come with us?" she asked. "But Wynne, why? I would have thought you'd rather stay here and help the Circle get settled."

"The Circle has more than enough able-bodied healers that they can do without me," Wynne explained, then sighed softly. "And between you and me, Yllia, after Ostagar and now this… I'm not certain I could bear being locked within these walls with the memories of these horrors. Most of them did not see what we did. The Circle is my home, and yet…" Her voice trailed off as she looked to the monolithic Tower another moment. "You understand?"

Yllia did. She understood too well, and she knew that there was really only one answer she could give to the elder mage. "I'd be honored if you would join us, Wynne," she said softly. "Your skills would be greatly appreciated…as would your company."

Wynne smiled at her, a strained gesture yet sincere nonetheless, and then nodded. "Then go inform your companions. I'll make the arrangements for your aid – given everything you've done for us, it will be given."

Relief flooded Yllia's blue eyes, filling them with light and warmth that hadn't been there moments earlier, and the young Warden mage headed back towards the Tower.

Wynne remained where she was for a moment, watching Yllia quietly disappear through the massive stone and metal doors. Then she placed her hand over her heart and closed her eyes.

"Just give me a bit more time," she murmured. "Let me see this lost bird safely out of her cage."

She sensed, more than felt or heard, a soft hum in the back of her mind – but beyond that nothing more. Just the disembodied sensation that her words had been accepted. She could only hope they would be granted as well.

Leaning against one of the walls on the ground level of Kinloch Hold, Alistair was reminded of one of the many reasons why he was glad he had not had to take templar vows. As a recruit he'd been brought to the Circle on more than one occasion, to be shown where most of the templars of Ferelden carried out their tours, at least in those beginning years before they were entrusted to circuits and smaller posts. The massive spire of Kinloch Hold had been impressive the first time he'd seen it, but upon reaching the actual tower he had realized what those living within the walls already knew – that Kinloch Hold served as both sanctuary and prison, not only for the mages but also for the templars stationed within her walls.

It was little wonder that Yllia held such apprehension whenever she mentioned the Circle. He could never be too sure if she was glad to be free of the place or if she missed it, and had finally come to the conclusion during their forced march that it was a combination of both. He could understand that. He had a similar feeling in regards to Redcliffe – although he had no desire to return to a life of living in the stables and kennels, forced to make himself scarce whenever there was the possibility of someone important catching a glimpse of his face (wouldn't want anyone to recognize Maric's bastard, of course), he still considered the village and castle to ultimately be home.

And following that vein of thought, it was even less surprising when she stormed out of the Tower without so much as a backwards glance to any of them after telling the Knight-Commander that Uldred was dead and the demons gone. He fought not to shudder. He thought Redcliffe had been bad, with the undead swarms and Connor's possession, but the Circle had brought him face to face with abominations and true demons. Things of nightmare that he would have preferred stayed in the realm of the dreams.

Demons never were content to do that, though, were they?

And it wasn't just the demons. They'd passed a number of corpses and faced more than a few thralls, being forced to cut each of them down. And with each one he'd seen the pain in Yllia's eyes. These were people she'd known, people she'd grown up with. He'd seen her when they'd come out of the Fade, the look on her face when she realized that nothing could be done for that mage. He'd asked her if she'd known him, and her response had been a brief 'not really'. But his death had still struck deep.

The worst hadn't been involving a mage, however, but a templar. He'd been shocked when he'd realized that it was Cullen behind that barrier – nearly the same age, they'd gone through training together. He'd always been one of the templars who sought to protect rather than persecute, and to hear such venomous anger come from him…

Not to mention how he reacted to Yllia's presence. Alistair wasn't so innocent that he didn't get what was going on there, nor did he miss the horror on Yllia's face as she realized it as well. He'd wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her – but what words were there that he could have said? What comfort could he have possibly offered?

He glanced towards the main doors, then over at Leliana, who was distracting herself with conversation with one of the other mages who had stayed behind the barrier after Wynne had joined them. Sten stood stoically off to his side, his expression unchanging, having hardly spoken two words since they'd begun their pursuit of the maleficar. Not unusual for Sten, that. Although was it just him, or did the Qunari seem tenser since they'd entered the Tower?

Nah. Had to just be him. What did he know about Qunari emotions?

The last member of their little band was pacing back and forth between the door and where Alistair stood. He'd approached a couple of times, concerned over how long Yllia had been gone, but each time Rhys had bared his fangs and growled deep. Figuring the mabari would have a better idea than he did about whether or not his mistress was in trouble Alistair had stopped after the second attempt, but that didn't keep him from worrying.

The door opened then, interrupting Alistair's thoughts as he straightened up. They all looked towards Yllia as she walked into the room, and he immediately gave her a searching look. She seemed okay, no longer as tense and angry as she'd been when she'd stormed out. Still, something about her seemed…off.

Rhys walked up to him and promptly shoved his head under her hand, prompting her to obediently stroke his head and behind his ears. She gave the mabari a soft look before raising her head to look at Alistair. They stared at each other for a moment, but when he started to speak, she broke eye contact and looked instead to Leliana as the redhead ended her conversation and approached them.

"Yllia?" Leliana asked, voice tinged with concern.

"I'm fine," Yllia said, giving Leliana a smile. "I just needed a few moments. I explained the situation in Redcliffe to Wynne, and she's talking to the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander about the lyrium and mage support needed for the spell. She's also going to be coming with us."

"With us?" Alistair looked surprised. Not that he had anything against the older mage coming with, but…well, he hadn't thought she'd want to. She wasn't exactly young, after all. And the Circle clearly meant a lot to her. He figured she'd rather stay with them now that all of the demons and whatnot were gone. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean…is she going to be able to keep up?"

"I kept up with you well enough climbing all of those stairs, didn't I?"

Alistair jumped at Wynne's sharp retort, half-turning to see the older woman standing off to the side, one eyebrow raised and a hand resting firmly on her hip.

"Oh! I wasn't…I didn't mean, I mean, I wasn't implying…" Alistair felt the heat rising in his cheeks, and it only compounded when the stern look vanished from Wynne's face, replaced by one of mirthful amusement. His blushing only worsened when she started chuckling.

"I've done my fair share of traveling over the years," Wynne said, smiling at him. "I think you'll find no need to be concerned about my ability to 'keep up', as you put it."

Alistair coughed. "Right," he said. "Of course. I knew you would be. I was just, you know, making sure."

"Right." Yllia looked at him dryly, then turned to Wynne. "What did Irving and Greagoir say?"

"You'll have your lyrium and you assistance," Wynne said. "Greagoir assigned a few of the templars to prepare boats to cut down on traveling time. You do realize that if you succeed in banishing this demon, the boy won't be able to keep living the life he's been living? Now that the Circle knows of him, they'll have no choice but to bring him here."

Yllia nodded. "I know," she said quietly. "But the other options… aren't worth the risk." Then way she glanced down made Alistair wonder if she'd told Wynne about Jowan and the blood magic. Well, if she hadn't he wasn't going to mention it – it wasn't exactly his place.

"Are we going, then?" Leliana inquired as they were silently joined by Sten.

Yllia nodded. "As soon as everything is ready," she said. Her lips pressed together tightly. "We've lost a full day here… I just hope that when we get back to Redcliffe, everything will still be the way we left it."

Leliana touched her arm and gave her a gentle, encouraging smile. "We will make it," she said. "We've come this far, have we not?"

It was when Yllia looked at Leliana to tentatively return her smile that it suddenly hit Alistair what was different about his fellow Warden – when she smiled it didn't reach her eyes as it normally did. Her entire expression was strained and forced, the dullness in her eyes proof of it. She was only pretending that she was all right – and now Alistair had the fresh concern over how long it would be before the weight of it became too much to handle?

Alistair knew then, as he stood there watching Yllia smile and pretend, that he would do anything to bring that light to her eyes again and keep it there. What had started as camaraderie in Ostagar had been steadily growing into something more, and there was no more denying that to himself. He was her sword and shield, and if she would have him, he would gladly be her support as well.

Whether he would be able to gather his courage about him and tell her… well, that was another matter completely.

'The nightingale in a golden cage

That's me locked inside reality's maze

Come someone make my heavy heart light

Come undone, bring me back to life'

'Escapist' Nightwish