Disclaimer:I own no part of Dragon Age, I'm merely borrowing it. I'l give it back...honest.

Author's Notes: Oh, uh...hi there! It hasn't really been a month since the last update, has it? Oh...it has? Oh, dear... I'm so sorry! April ended up being on the hectic side - I had an anime convention to go to, then two writing contest deadlines and a ton of stuff to do at work, which cut into my fanfiction writing time. Time really got away from me. The plus side is that I now deliver a larger-than-normal chapter for everyone's reading pleasure, and I hope it's enjoyed.

As a side note, if there are any 80s anime fans out there, I've begun to post over in the Saint Seiya fandom. Nothing much, just some one-shots at the moment, but if you're interested please check it out. As always I enjoy feedback and constructive criticism, and I especially enjoy knowing that people are reading my work. On that note, please enjoy the chapter.

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Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Seventeen: Lotus Denied

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Denerim

The air was heavy in the city of Denerim, the usual bustle muted with solemnity. Unsurprising, really – the entire country was still reeling over the loss of its king and the heavy defeat at Ostagar. Not even the nobility could be turned to in this time of need; the Bannorn were divided, the combined loss of both King Cailan and Teyrn Cousland, as well as the rumored news of Arl Eamon's illness, had struck a heavy blow.

And now this. A messenger had arrived just hours earlier, and Loghain could only read the contents of the message repeatedly, unable to do anything about what it held. Lothering had fallen. The darkspawn had spread north enough to affect that largest village north of the Wilds, and it was no more. Only a single templar, one Ser Byron, had escaped the horde to bring word to Denerim. The moment he'd read the report he'd dispatched half a dozen more scouts to ascertain exactly how much further north the horde had moved…and east as well. He wondered how many of them would return. He wondered how far they would get before having to turn back.

He did not permit himself to think about Gwaren.

Loghain heard the footsteps enter the room, and recognized the footfalls; he did not turn to face the newcomer.

"I bring word, sire," Rendon Howe's carefully calculated drawl came from behind. "There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the Regency. They are said to be gathering their forces, as are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn. Pity."

Loghain closed his eyes, keeping his back to Howe. So the Bannorn would fight him. Unsurprising given the tenacity of some of the banns. He went through them in his mind quickly – he knew he could count on the support of Amaranthine City through Howe, and Lothering would not be an issue now. Rainesfere would be against him for certain; Bann Teagan had made his displeasure with him more than known. South Reach would likely oppose him as well. The rest…

"I also have an interesting report," Howe continued. "There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar. How, I don't know, but they will act against you."

Loghain closed his eyes briefly, and then nodded to himself. Of course there were survivors. He knew none of those on the battlefield could have lived, but the two who had been sent to the Tower of Ishal – he'd seen the beacon lit, though late, and by that had told him they'd survived that long. There'd always been the possibility, which was why he'd ordered some of his men to remain in the south and seek news. Or heads, if the opportunity presented itself.

The thought that any of those traitors might have survived…he'd never trusted the Grey Wardens. He'd told Maric, and later Cailan, time and time again. And he'd been proven right, hadn't he, twenty years earlier when they'd conspired with the former First Enchanter to deliver Maric to Orlais! Yet Maric had waved off his concerns, and Cailan hadn't heard them.

"I have arranged for a…ah…solution," Howe continued, and for the first time Loghain turned to look at him, and slight frown upon his face. It would not be the first time Howe had taken care of outside matters while Loghain dealt with the twin juggernauts of Orlais and the darkspawn, but it was the first time he'd done so without request. Without waiting for Loghain to respond, Howe turned slightly and gestured off to the side. "With your leave."

With a jolt of shock that he kept carefully hidden, Loghain realized that he had failed to notice the second person in the room with them. Even now, as the elf came forward with silent steps, he realized he would not have registered his presence had Howe not specifically pointed him out.

The elf was short of stature in the manner that elves were, but Loghain knew that that meant little with the right training and proper skill. Beneath the light armor this elf wore he decided power and presence, a lithe strength that he had honed to perfection in order to obtain the light footfalls that made him near undetectable. That alone made him realize what he was facing before the elf even spoke.

"The Antivan Crows send their regards," the elf said in an obvious accent.

Loghain took a deep breath, then seized his cup and brought it to his lips, taking a drink of the wine as he turned his back once more to them. "An assassin against Grey Wardens." More amazing was that an assassin had even taken the job.

"We will need the very best," Howe pointed out.

The elf chuckled. "And," he pointed out with no little glee, "the most expensive."

Loghain tensed and half-turned, but stopped himself before his thoughts could find voice. No need for the Crows to know how tight Ferelden's coffers were at this moment. The contract was clearly already in place, and Loghain knew he didn't have the resources at his disposal to deal with the Wardens himself. The time was growing ever closer when he was going to have to figure out how to deal with the lack of money the country had at its disposal… but not now. Not yet. He had traitors, civil war, and darkspawn to contend with first.

"Just get it done," he said harshly, clenching his jaw and staring at the fire before him.

There was a hesitant pause from behind him, as if neither Howe nor the assassin were sure if there was more to be said, and then if they wanted to risk saying it. Evidently they decided against it, as a moment later he heard them both turn and leave the room.

Loghain stared at the fire a moment longer, and then closed his eyes. He would find a way to save Ferelden and keep the country from failing into ruin, no matter what the cost. He would not let Maric's legacy founder; not when its fate rested on his shoulders alone.

Ferelden was all that he had left.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Zevran silently followed Howe out of the office, resisting the urge to cast a backwards glance at the man sitting behind the desk. So that was Ferelden's Hero, their great warrior. Loghain Mac Tir was certainly as impressive as the legends would have him, to be true. Zevran had wondered on occasion if, perhaps, the stories were not embellished. Though some of them certainly were – as he sincerely doubted Loghain had taken on an entire company of Orlesian chevaliers bare-handed in single combat – many of them were quite believable now that he had laid eyes on the man himself.

He had observed something else in the man, however, something that the tales never claimed. There was a heavy weariness in the man, a great weight resting upon his shoulders. He was trying to hide it, and was doing so rather successfully, but Zevran was far too adept at discerning these sort of things to be fooled.

It likewise was not difficult to theorize what was causing the strain. Not two hours in Amaranthine once The Siren's Call had docked, and Zevran had already heard a variety of rumors regarding Ostagar, King Cailan, and Loghain. Some were in support of the teyrn, supposing that he had had no choice in the matter; others condemned him, declaring him a traitor seeking to seize the throne for himself. Either could have been possible – Zevran had seen many such grabs for power in his time as a Crow.

Though in Zevran's opinion those who made such bids did not burden themselves with guilt over those they had to step on to achieve their successes. Politics had never been his strong suit – he knew little of Ferelden's situation save for knowing that it had only been thirty years since the country had won its independence from Orlais. But still, he was fairly certain that political overthrows resulted in those pleased to be in the position they were in now.

Loghain Mac Tir had not looked pleased. He had looked, in fact, as if he had a monstrous headache.

He had followed Howe a good distance from the office; as they neared the main corridor of the Palace, he slowed his pace until he came to a stop. "So," he said, "I will be off, si? I trust you wish this to be dealt with as swiftly as possible."

Howe took a couple more steps, then paused as he realized the assassin wasn't still following him. He turned with a slightly irritated look on his face – did he, Zevran wondered, have any other looks? – but held back whatever comment was trying to manifest along with it. "Not quite," he said, looking down his aquiline nose as the elf. "There is another task that I wish for you carry out as well – or rather, an extension of what we discussed in the hall."

Zevran inclined his head slightly, giving Howe a curious look. "Oh? And what is this intriguing extension you wish of me?"

"I must stress the importance of this," Howe said, beady eyes narrowing. "The Wardens must not be permitted to reach Denerim alive. Particularly the man."

Particularly? Zevran raised a mental eyebrow. The initial request had spoken of the Grey Wardens as a whole entity, not singling out any one Warden in specific. Affecting a casual tone he said, "I was under the impression that there were many men within the Grey Wardens."

"There were, once," Howe said curtly. "But their numbers have been drastically reduced as of late. Now there are merely two – one a wet-behind-the-ears warrior; the other an elvhen woman. Our information indicates that she appears to be the leader." The contempt and disgust he put into his words spoke volumes as evidence of a misogynistic personality. "Both of them are to be eliminated.

A wet-behind-the-ears warrior who must be particularly killed? Zevran mused. It's not his skills, then, that is worrisome but rather something about the man himself. There had once been a time when he would have delighted in puzzling out such a mystery before ultimately carrying out his task, and he had to admit that he could feel a bit of the old flair spiking his curiosity. He shoved it aside. He was doing this for only one reason, and he would not allow himself to be sidetracked by idle fancy.

"I understand," Zevran said smoothly. "Leave the details to me – I will see this task done for you. I will require only a map of the possible routes they might take northward. The rest I shall provide on my own."

This seemed to please Howe, as the assassin had figured it would; no doubt he'd been concerned about how deep into his coffers he would have to dip to cover possible expenses. That was the problem with nobility, no matter what country they hailed from – they were more than happy to dictate the orders, but have it actually impede on them in any fashion and they became more and more obstinate. Patetico. Even the Masters of the Crows reached their heights by dirtying their hands, and for all that they were more than willing to lie, cheat, and kill to get to their places, at least they did so themselves.

"Good," Howe said with a nod, looking distinctly pleased. "Good. Go, then, and see to your task." He turned on his heel then, an obvious dismissal as he began to head back down the hall, leaving Zevran standing where he was – no doubt expecting him to find his own way out of the Palace, as well as locating his quarry and any other resources that he would need to see this job to completion.

Zevran idly wondered how quick it would take to draw his dagger and sink it into the man's back as he walked off – he moved with such a sense of self-importance that the elf sincerely doubted the man was even remotely concerned he could be the target of an assassination himself.

The thought came and went an eyeblink; the elf shrugged and turned to slip out of the Palace as unseen as he had arrived. He had his task and he would not stray from it – it was only a matter of time before a ratón such as he found himself from the wrong end of a Crow contract.

It was almost a shame that he would not be around to see it.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The Fade.

For most, the Fade was simply a name given to the realm of dreams, that place where minds drifted during sleep. Everyone knew the term; few gave actual thought as to what it was or what it held. Most never wandered beyond their own dreaming enclave, nor did they have any real influence on what occurred. Not of their own free will, at least.

It was different for mages. To a mage the Fade was more than a simple place to dream. It was a living, breathing entity, another realm tied so closely to the waking world that it could be reached simply by closing one's eyes…or casting a spell.

Yllia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the familiar –yet-odd landscape around her. The first time she'd entered the Fade it was struck her how alien the strange place was. The tree-lined paths and odd expanses of floating land, the peculiarity of how one traveled from area to area, the muted colors of objects attempting to mimic life and falling just short – all of these together gave the Fade a surreal quality, a sense of not-quite-right. One of her instructors had explained that the Fade tried to mimic the memories of its dreamers, to build itself off of them, but that memory was such a fragile thing based largely on perception that the end result could become rather disjointed.

Disjointed.

Now that was a rather accurate description for how she felt at the sight of dozens of spectral Connors running around, repeating a myriad of phrases so jumbled together that they became nonsensical. None of the images appeared to take notice of her, but all of them seemed to be looking for something. Or someone. Hadn't Isolde said that Connor had turned to the demon because of what had happened to the Arl? If she stood there and listened, she could just make out the phrase 'Father, where are you?' repeated over and over again, each time with a different note of desperation.

Mamae? Mamae, where are you?

A shudder slid through Yllia, and she wrapped her arms tight around herself, shoving the brief tendril of memory back to where it firmly belonged – away, out of her thoughts and where it could do no harm. This wasn't her dream; it was Connor's and to add to the complication it was also now the territory of a demon. The demon was the reason everything was so jumbled and confused here, Yllia was certain. Its presence was throwing off the harmony of Connor's mind, and as the lines between it and Connor became blurred the chaotic senses were leaking into the Fade itself.

She didn't know what would happen if the demon managed to gain full control and fortunately she had no intention of finding out.

The Connor-specters paid her no heed, running every which way along the dirt-and-rock paths that served for solid ground. At first it seemed as if they moved without pattern or purpose; then she realized that regardless of where they ran at first, each one always ended up darting off down a specific path. Towards the demon? Possibly, if it really was acting as the source for the chaos.

A quick check behind her to make sure that her staff had materialized with her, and she started along the path that each specter was taking.

The scenery remained unchanged; she wasn't sure if it was just because everything looked so alike, or if it really did happen to be repeating itself. Soon, though, she noticed a difference in the cacophony of children's voices – another voice, deeper, a man's voice calling out.

She rounded a corner and stopped. "Well," she commented to no one, "if it wasn't surreal before, it certainly is now."

Before her, set in a small copse of near-dead trees, was a man standing in the middle of a re-imagined bedroom. He was older, with graying hair and a full beard, dressed in finery and looking rather panicked. Yllia had never seen him before, but going off of a certain family resemblance combined with the anxious sound of Connor's name being called, it was easy enough to guess who she was seeing.

"Arl Eamon? How in the world did you get here?"

She might as well have been talking to thin air for all the reaction the comment got from him. He looked at her as if she were transparent, his eyes focusing on a point behind her. "Connor?" he called, shifting his gaze a moment later to sweep the area. "Connor, where are you?" Never mind that there were a couple dozen Connor-specters running around – Eamon seemed as oblivious to those as he was to Yllia.

A product of the demon, perhaps, designed to cause more turmoil and strife within the boy's mind? Possible. The demon could be tormenting Connor with an image of his father being so close and yet unreachable, when all he wanted to do was save him. Dangling hope for too long without a chance of obtaining it, and even the strongest will could break.

But…no, that didn't feel right. Standing here before him, it didn't feel as if she were talking to a demon-made apparition. Unlike the Connor-specters, Eamon varied what he said, not terribly, but enough to give her the sense that she was dealing more with a frantic father than a mental inconsistency. There had been several times when she'd walked the Fade in the past, during her dreams and her training, and on occasion had encountered the dreams of non-mages. In those moments she could do nothing to affect the dreamer – they simply went about their dream, taking no notice of her presence. After a few occasions of this she had taken note of a certain signature, a specific sense that told her whether the person before her was the true dreamer or a product of imagination thereof. Thinking it useful, she'd committed this signature to memory.

She felt it here, now, as clear as a bell. The man standing before her was the real Arl Eamon. Somehow, in the drugged stupor of the poison that was slowly draining away his life, the arl's mind had become entangled with his son's in the Fade. Was this one of the reasons that Connor was able to prevent the demon from fully taking control? Was his father's presence here, however slim and minor it was, helping to keep the boy grounded? She'd never heard of anything like this happening before, but that didn't mean it couldn't. Though how Eamon's mind had managed to do this in the first place was an equally confounding question.

Maybe, a sudden thought flickered into her mind, Isolde isn't the only one with mage blood running through her veins.

A blanket of cold washed over her, gooseflesh prickling on her arms and spreading along their lengths. Her blue eyes darkening, she turned away from Arl Eamon to look down the path ahead. The end of the path was difficult to discern, shrouded in hazy mist that was impossible to see beyond without walking through it. She knew what this was; she'd felt it before. The demon had sensed her presence within its territory, sensed her power, and was calling to her. She could feel the compulsion tugging at her mind, but her mental wards were strong. She could resist and keep her own mind. She would.

Squaring her shoulders and resisting the urge to draw her staff – she really didn't want to give the demon an excuse to attack on sight – Yllia turned her back to Arl Eamon and began down the grayed path towards the mist. The Connor-specters didn't come near this part, she noticed. They skirted around it, avoiding it as if it didn't even exist. Unsurprisingly, through the mist she found a portal of swirling black and purple energy, and the compulsion grew stronger still.

Yllia stopped before the portal and closed her eyes, taking several slow, deep breaths in an attempt to clear her mind. It was the first time she'd experienced such a strong pull. The Sloth demon in the Tower exerted his power through the dreams – it had been easy enough for her to separate what was dream and what was not. The Pride demon she'd encountered during her Harrowing had opted to work not on her mind directly, but to persuade her through far subtler means.

This demon did not attempt to trick her. It was blunt, direct, and obvious – it knew what she was, probably knew what she wanted, and it showed no hesitation in working its will on her. She would have admired such straightforwardness and dedication – if, of course, the one utilizing it hadn't been a demon.

The tug grew stronger, and Yllia stepped through the portal.

The scenery shifted and warped around her, the paths behind her vanishing and the sounds of Connor's cries and Eamon's exclamations disappearing. The temperature dropped drastically – and then rose, becoming a warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket on a winter's night. A heady feeling of comfort and tranquility grew within her, and the world righted itself once more.

She opened eyes she had not known she'd closed.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

She opened eyes she had not known she'd closed, and found herself staring into a pair of matching blue.

They belonged to an elf, a woman with long flaxen hair and tan skin bearing the dark vallaslin of the Dalish. She was kneeling beside Yllia, a warm smile on her face. "Oh, good," she said, the Dalish accent rounding out her words and reminding the younger elf of warm butter. "I was wondering when you'd be waking, lethallan. You've slept well into the mid-day."

For a moment Yllia couldn't comprehend what was being said to her. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, pushing herself into a sitting position. She'd been curled up on a blanket of furs, piled up in the back of the aravel. The moment she righted herself, though, her head cleared, and she was able to drag herself out of that realm between dream and reality.

"Lethallan, are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost." The woman was looking at her in concern now, hand reaching out to rest on her arm.

Yllia looked at her, and smiled. "I'm fine, Mamae," she assured her quickly. Why did her heart feel as if she hadn't seen her mother in years? She'd been there only that morning, when they'd risen for their morning meal before her father had gone out with the hunters and her mother had gone to work with the Halla. "I think I might have had a bad dream, but I don't even remember it."

Her mother still looked uncertain, but she accepted her daughter's words and nodded. "Very well," she said. "It's time for you to wash up and get ready, though. The Keeper will be gathering everyone for the ceremony – you don't want to be late for your own day, do you?"

A spark of excitement ran through Yllia, and her eyes lit up. The ceremony. The day that the light blue tattoos on her face that had been there since childhood would be darkened with her own blood, and she would be marked an adult in the face of her clan. And then… even better… the Keeper would officially proclaim her to be his First. Everyone knew that it would happen; Yllia was the only mage-child born to her clan since the Keeper's generation. The announcement was formality only, but it would be official. Her heart quickened in anticipation at the mere thought of it.

Her mother saw the look on her face and laughed, rising to her feet. "Do what you need to do, then, and I'll wait for you outside," she said. "Try not to take too long." It was a teasing jibe – she was meticulous when it came to her appearance, particularly her hair, and her parents knew it well. But then she'd inherited the trait from her mother, hadn't she?

But today her excitement overrode all other feelings and she gave her hair only a cursory tidying up before dressing in the traditional armor of her people's mages. She'd heard that the human mages were forced to wear long robes that trailed to their ankles and had high collars, and she couldn't imagine anything more constrictive. The more flesh was covered the more apart from the natural world you were, and it was from nature that magic gained its strength. Humans might think short sleeves, bared midriffs, and low necklines indecent on their women, but for the Dalish it was commonplace.

She emerged from the aravel into the shade and sunlight of the forest and gave a long stretch to work out the kinks in her muscles from her nap. The sunlight twinkled through the forest canopy, the trees allowing large patches of it to dot the encampment while others remained in complete shade. Normally if she looked around she could find the members of her clan dispersed intermittently around the camp, some of them tending to their duties, others relaxing or lounging in well-deserved breaks. Today, though, they were instead all gathered around the storyteller's circle, and she knew that they were waiting for her.

The Keeper stood in the center of the circle, and she smiled when she saw Yllia. She was many years older, her ravens-wing hair liberally streaked with silver that betrayed her age, her own vallaslin faded with age. She was choosing a First at an age older than most Keepers, but then Yllia would be her second, the first having died due to illness before Yllia had been born. Her clan knew very well that not even their Keepers were exempt from the perils of injury and illness.

The crowd parted when Yllia approached to allow her into the circle; she saw her parents standing on the edge. She'd never seen a prouder look on her father's face – the sheer pleasure in his expression and her mother's brought a shy blush to her cheeks. When she'd first shown her magic and the Keeper had announced her intent to make her First, she'd never seen them smile so much. And now here she was, about to take her vallaslin and accept her new position within the clan.

The Keeper placed her hand on Yllia's back when she was close enough and turned to address the clan. "We have gathered here this day to see our child take her first step into womanhood, and to claim her birthright as a member of this clan," she announced, her voice carrying to all ears despite being only slightly louder than her normal volume. "Child no more, she will claim her place as First, and when I have returned to the earth she will claim her place as Keeper, leading on in my stead. Be there anyone who objects to this declaration?"

No one spoke; even if anyone did object, no one would go against the Keeper's wishes. Their Keeper was much beloved. If she wanted Yllia for her First, then she would have Yllia. When only silence met the Keeper's words, the elder woman turned to face Yllia. "And are you ready to accept your responsibilities to the People, young Yllia?"

Yllia nodded, her heart quickening in anticipation. "I am," she said. "I'm ready, Keeper."

The Keeper smiled and nodded, and then motioned one of the men over. He held in his hands the special tools for creating the vallaslin, and Yllia tried not to look nervous as she looked at the sharpened instruments. She could do this. She would do this. She had waited far, far too long for this moment.

She turned to face the tattooist and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steel herself for the first cut into her skin. Taking the vallaslin was no small feat – it was a test of strength and fortitude. No Dalish who did not undergo the rite would ever be accepted as an adult within the clan. She braced herself, waiting for the touch of the blade.

It didn't come. A shout went up from the edge of the camp without warning, the scouts giving the signal of outsiders approaching. Yllia's eyes snapped open, her alarmed gaze following everyone else's over towards the entrance to the camp.

Three scouts appeared moments later, leading a caravan of armor-clad humans into the camp. No – not only humans, Yllia realized with a start. Of the dozen or so men who approached, at least a third of them were a mix of elves and dwarves. They appeared to be a motley crew, their armor dinged and damaged from battle, some of them sporting recent-looking injuries that had been tended to in haste. It wasn't the first time their clan had come across a group of mercenaries or patrolling soldiers, but there was something…different about these.

A hand touched her arm, and she turned her head to see the Keeper standing beside her. "Come with me," the Keeper murmured, starting towards the men. Yllia quickly followed – it was usually up to the Keeper to handle such intrusions, and as her soon-to-be First it would one day be Yllia's task. No time to learn like the present, she supposed.

The Keeper walked up to the man who appeared at the head of the group, a swarthy man with dark hair and a full beard. "I am the Keeper of this clan," she said, shifting effortlessly into the tongue of man, for languages were just one of many avenues of knowledge a Keeper pursued. "Please allow me to welcome you to our camp."

Yllia looked at the Keeper, startled. Welcome? She couldn't remember the last time humans had been welcome among their people. Theirs was a clan that did not have a good history with humans, and so did their ready best to avoid confrontation and conflict with them. To hear the Keeper welcome these men… who were they?

"We are grateful for your hospitality," the man said gravely. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Duncan, Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. My men and I are passing through on our way to the Korcari Wilds."

As the Keeper ran a critical eye over Duncan's men, Yllia's eyes widened. Grey Wardens? These men…this motley crew of humans, elves, and dwarves…they were Grey Wardens? Regardless of where they lived, there wasn't a single Dalish who didn't know of the Order of the Grey. The Keeper had told her on occasion of how the Dalish and the Wardens had long held a treaty between them, one that stated that should the Wardens request it, a Dalish clan was required to allow them to choose new Wardens from among their ranks.

She'd always imagined the Grey Wardens to be like something out of legends, six feet tall and all muscle and stretch, wielding greatswords and great axes with their enhanced strength, able to spy darkspawn from miles away, powerful enough to fell an archdemon with a single blow. Perhaps even breathing some fire every now and then. And of course the griffins – she loved the tales of the griffins, though she knew the animals had long been extinct.

These men were nothing like what her imagination had come up with. Most of them were of average height for their respective races. Then men had a very Ferelden appearance to them, the elves looked like a mix of Dalish and city elves, and the dwarves…all right, it was her first time ever seeing a dwarf, and she had to admit that she was a little fascinated by the sheer length and bulk that was their beards. Elves didn't grow facial hair; the beards were impressive.

As her eyes moved over the Wardens, they suddenly connected with a pair of amused hazel that were looking right at her. The sudden realization that she'd been caught red-handed in her scrutinizing brought a rare blush to her cheeks, and she immediately averted her gaze.

"Yllia!" The sharp rapport of the Keeper's voice snapped her out of her distraction, eyes widening as she realized the Keeper must have been trying to get her attention more than a couple of times. Her cheeks flushed against for an entirely different reason, and she sought to look contrite.

"Yes, Keeper?" she asked, clasping her hands together in front of her and trying to look as if she knew exactly what was going on despite her obvious distraction.

"The Wardens are seeking replenishment in their supplies before they continue southward," the Keeper said. "See to it that they get everything they need."

Yllia nodded obediently. "Yes, Keeper," she repeated, then looked at Duncan. She faltered slightly. Was she supposed to take all of them to the supply aravel?

"Alistair," Duncan said, turning his head slightly, "you're in charge of making sure we get what we need."

It was the hazel-eyed man who Yllia had locked gazes with for a moment who stepped forward at Duncan's words, and he flashed Yllia a boyish grin that grew a tentative return smile from her. She gave a slight nod and motioned for him to follow her. "This way."

The man followed her without hesitation, walking alongside her with what was – to her – startling ease given the amount of armor that he was currently wearing on his broad-shouldered frame. Elves, by nature of their size and stature, could generally only handle the lightest of armors. There had been a few who with the strength and balance to handle the heavier work, but those who did were rarely permitted to use it outside of specialized combat. Heavy armor, even medium, was not exactly beneficial to moving through trees silent and unseen.

When they reached the supply aravel, Yllia began to pull out portions of each type of item needed, passing them to Alistair so that he could slip them into the packs he'd brought. "Thanks for this," he said. "We've still got a bit of a trek south towards Ostagar, and we lost half our supplies in a skirmish a few days back. We're lucky to have come across your clan, and that you're willing to help us."

"The Dalish have always had a pact of cooperation with the Grey Wardens," Yllia said softly. "It wouldn't be honorable to break it."

"Duncan said the Dalish take their honor seriously," Alistair commented, scowling at his pack as he shifted items around within it to try and make more room. "That's why he wanted to come here instead of trying to make for the next village. Some of the others wanted to press on, but we were all more than a little cranky at that point, so Duncan ignored them and just changed our course. Don't know how he knew your clan was here, but he led us straight to you without hesitation."

"I suspect that this isn't the first time he's dealt with the Dalish," Yllia murmured, stealing a glance in the direction of where Duncan and the Keeper were talking quietly between the two of them. The rest of the clan had dispersed, some of them lingering near out of suspicion or curiosity, others returning to their duties. The ceremony was halted for now – it would pick up again after the Wardens left.

She passed Alistair the last of the supplies and let the leather covering fall back over the aravel entrance. Then she turned to look at him – just in time for him to lose his grip on the pack and have it tumble to the side, half the carefully-packed supplies falling out of their place. He bit back a groan. "None of that got ruined, did it?

She knelt down to help him gather it back up. "No – see? We wrap the food in these leaves both to protect it and to preserve its taste. And the seals on the sacks did not break, so the rest of the supplies are fine as well." He looked relieved, smiling as he accepted her help.

Once the pack was re-organized and actually closed this time, Alistair commenting that she had a much better handle on the task than he did, the two of them rose to their feet. Alistair automatically reached out to help her, placing his hand on her arm, a gesture with brought a light blush to her cheeks once more. Most Dalish would have scorned such a touch from a shemlen, but there was just something so inherently sweet about Alistair that Yllia couldn't be offended.

"You say you're going south, then?" Yllia asked curiously."To the Wilds?"

Alistair shouldered the pack and nodded. "Ostagar, to be exact," he said, naming the ancient ruins that were said to date back to the days when Ferelden was controlled by the Tevinter Imperium. Yllia had always secretly hoped that one day her clan would pass through and she could see them, but the Wilds belonged to the Chasind, and as a rule the Dalish tried to keep out of their territory.

"That's quite a ways south," she commented. "Why are you going there?"

Alistair cast a brief glance in Duncan's direction, hesitating as if unsure whether or not he ought to answer her question. Just as Yllia was about to retract the question and spare him the discomfort he seemed to make up his mind and turned back to her.

"We're to meet up with King Cailan's army there," he said, keeping his voice low. "There've been reports of a multitude of darkspawn in the area. That's another reason why Duncan wanted to intercept your clan before we went further south. He's probably warning your Keeper now and advising her to turn your clan north."

North was where they were headed anyway, but the implication of Alistair's words formed an uneasy weight within her. "Darkspawn?" she repeated. She'd never seen one. She never wanted to. The darkspawn were creatures of corruption, a single nightmare shared by all the races of Thedas. Man, elf, dwarf, even the kossith of the Qunari – all were tied to the darkspawn, and all held a fear in their hearts for them.

Alistair nodded. "We…don't know how many. That's one of the things we're going to check out."

He was lying. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his hesitation. He might not know the exact number, but he knew enough to know that this was no mere uprising of darkspawn from the Deep Roads. And Yllia was no fool, nor a slacker in her history. The Grey Wardens dealt with the darkspawn exclusively – save for four deadly exceptions.

Was there now to be a Fifth?

A chill ran through her, coupling with her uneasiness to leave her with an ominous feeling. Gooseflesh pricked her arms; she rubbed at them absently. "I should be there," she whispered.

Alistair gave her an odd look. "Uh…sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

She swallowed; her throat was dry and her mouth tasted like sand. "I should be there," she repeated, louder this time. "I shouldn't… be here."

She didn't hear what he said in response as she turned away from him, her eyes sweeping around the camp. Wrong. All wrong. She didn't know how she hadn't seen it before. The colors were muted, not nearly as vibrant as they ought to be. There was a distortion to voices, mouths moving slightly out of sync of what was being said – and she realized that unless she was focusing directly on a person, no sound actually came from them despite the mimicry of conversation.

"This is all wrong," she whispered, choking on the words. "All wrong." Her eyes went to the group of Wardens surrounding the Keeper, and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Duncan looked normal, as normal as he had the last time she'd seen him – whenhadsheseenhim? – but the Wardens around him…

For the first time she realized that their faces were…blank. Expressions lax, eyes dim, just standing there as if they were mere props on an Orlesian stage. Their features appeared blurred and indistinct, as though they were waiting for an artist to finish filling in the canvas.

The Keeper held more detail, but even then there were things that were off about her. The color of her hair kept abruptly shifting, as if it couldn't decide what shade it was supposed to be. The vallaslin on her face would be different each time she turned her head. Small, tiny things, things that could have been overlooked if not for the overwhelming wrongness that had suddenly washed over her. She heard Alistair's voice again, but it was distant this time. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reaching for him, but she jerked away and spun around, a desperate look on her face as she searched the crowd of Dalish for the one person who could make it all better. Her mother.

Not her mother.

Even before her eyes came to land on the face of the woman who just moments ago had been smiling and joking with her, before she saw the emptiness in that face that was mirrored in all the others, that not-quite-rightness, Yllia knew the truth.

She couldn't be with her clan, preparing for her vallaslin, because her clan no longer existed. She couldn't be in this forest, because she'd spent her entire life in the tower of Kinloch Hold. Her life among the Dalish had been cut short at the age of four. And her mother couldn't possibly be standing before her, because her mother was dead.

"Damn. And I was so certain I'd picked the perfect temptation."

It was Alistair's voice and it was not Alistair's voice, the gentle baritone taking on a purring quality that, if spoken by the real Alistair, would have had Morrigan in an uproar. The landscape around her shifted, the bright greens and deep browns of the forest fading, and Yllia found herself turning all on her own to come face to face with 'Alistair'.

'He' stood there, arms crossed over 'his' chest, looking amused and bored all at once. "Really, you could have proven to be more of an entertainment," 'he' said. "It's your fault, after all, that I haven't been able to enjoy myself these last few nights. Do you have any idea how droll it is, possessing a body and being unable to do anything with it?"

Yllia narrowed her eyes. "Not really, no, and I don't have any intention of finding out," she said icily. "Mind doing me a favor and losing that form? It doesn't suit you at all."

"Possessive, aren't we?" The demon ran 'his' hand down the front of 'his' body in a decidedly feminine manner, which would have been humorous if the situation weren't what it was. As the hand moved the body shifted and changed, skin darkening to a deep purple, broad shoulders growing more delicate, breasts forming above a slimming waist and hips that suddenly flared. Twin horns grew from the now waist-length mass of black-violet hair, and the Desire demon curled her lips into a slow, seductive smile.

"Still," she purred, no trace of Alistair's voice remaining, "I have to admit to some surprise. I return to you your clan and family, and yet you still persist in choosing the Wardens and the human. What hidden desires you have, mageling."

"I don't have any interest in analyzing my wants and dreams with you, demon," Yllia said, applauding herself mentally for keeping her voice calm. "They belong to me and me alone."

"Ah, but so long as you're in my place, mageling, your wishes are an open book that I may peruse at my leisure." The demon moved around Yllia in a slow circle, the wisp of smoke that her legs tapered into writhing along the ground. Yllia stood her ground, keeping her gaze straight ahead and not allowing herself to fall into the trap of being mesmerized by the Desire demon's movements. That had been her initial mistake; she hadn't been prepared when she'd passed through the portal, and the demon had already been lying in wait for her, snaring her in fantasy the moment she'd stepped through. She would not make the same mistake again. She'd faced a Pride demon for her Harrowing; damn if she was going to fall to one of Desire.

"Yes… right out there in the open for me to see," the demon continued with a silky laugh. "You want him, don't you, little mageling? How very quaint – the mage and the templar, brought together by a chance quirk in fate.

"Do you think he'll ever want you in the same way?" The voice was right next to Yllia's ear now, causing her to tense and hold her breath. "It won't work, you know. To him you're nothing more than a knife-eared wench, good for one thing and one thing only. And tainted by magic, so not even good for that. He'll never accept you as you are. You'll never be more than a dalliance to him."

Yllia clenched her jaw, gritting her teeth together in annoyance. She moved her fingers, sparks of electricity snapping around their tips. "Keep talking, demon," she growled. "The more you do, the angrier I'm going to get. If you have such insight into my mind, you know why I'm here."

The demon sighed, and moved to hover in front of her again. "Yes, yes," she said with a roll of her eyes. "The boy. You wish to free him from my dark, unholy control, to release him from the chains of possession that I have sundered him with." She chuckled. "You will find it futile. The boy asked for my aid, he begged me for it. He doesn't wish to be free of me."

"Somehow I don't think imprisoning his father in his own mind was quite the rescue that Connor intended for Arl Eamon," Yllia said icily, and the demon's eyes narrowed. "Did you think I wouldn't notice what you did. In exchange for power you promised Connor that his father would live – and true enough he does, but he lives half an existence. Do you really think Connor considers the bargain well met?"

"The boy is mine," the demon hissed, drawing herself up to full height. She dropped the seductive posture, the teasing lilt, and bared her fangs. "Leave us be, mage. I will not be denied!"

Yllia gave the demon her sweetest smile, and her staff appeared in her hand with a single thought. "Too bad," she said. "I'm denying you."

With a shriek of anger the demon lashed out, thrusting out her hands and sending streams of lightning arcing out towards Yllia. It was exactly what she'd been waiting for – that moment when the demon lost all pretense of civility and reduced itself to its base nature as a creature of chaos and destruction.

With practiced skill she brought her staff up to block, a pulse of purple and white light exploding front the tip of it as she returned fire. The arcane bolt did little to thwart the demon, but it serves its dual purpose of startling her, allowing Yllia to close the distance between them and unleash a close-range burst of fire. The demon threw up her arms, cursing and swearing even as energy curled around her fingers.

Before the next attack could go off, Yllia dropped to her knees and spun her staff, driving the weapon's pointed tip deep into the demon's abdomen. The growing energy stuttered, then petered out with little fanfare as the demon's hand came down to grasp at the object protruding from her body.

She drew back her lips, reveling sharp, pointed fangs. "You think this will be enough to do me in?" she hissed. "You underestimate me, mageling!"

"Actually," Yllia said, "I was expecting you to put up a better fight." She threw her weight against the staff, the opposite end of it protruding out of the demon's back. The demon arched her back and screamed, the Fade reverberating with her death throes.

Almost too late Yllia sensed the magic growing around them, and her eyes widened as she realized the demon had cast one last spell at the moment of her death. Yllia released her grip on the staff, but there was no time to move back – without warning the corpse and her staff both erupted into flames, exploding with force and sending her slamming into the ground, her head striking a rock as fire rained down around her.

As her vision went black she dimly thought, Well, at least I killed the demon.